The Last Grand Aria
by Stratagem Blue
Summary: In New York, after six long years of wandering, Erik comes across his beloved Christine once more, and embarks on a quest to rebuild their relationship,seeking love and forgiveness, working against powerful forces that strive to pull them apart.
1. A Light on Bowery Street

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. But I can dream...sighs...

A/N: This story is based off the movie from 2004, except for the fact that I kept the phantom's name, Erik, from the novel. This is an Erik/Christine fanfic, even though Raoul will be a main character in the story for awhile. It takes place in New York about six years after the end of the movie. This first chapter is more like a prologue, a little slow, but don't be discouraged! It's going to get exciting very quick. (Hopes and prays while crossing fingers). Reviews are always appreciated, so please feel inclined to do so. Enjoy!

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Chapter 1

There is an eerie and gross attraction that compels men to spend the days of their melancholy in the eye of the public domain. Surely a man who has been buffeted with scorn and intolerance would seek a place void of those who would ridicule him. Places of tranquility and solitude do exist if one is willing to go the extra length to find them. Yet many, such as the poor wandering soul that now crept idly along the deserted avenues of New York, have too much sorrow to spend a life on the outer rim of human contact. If such a man were to sit alone, in the quiet of his own thoughts, he would certainly go mad from the sheer weight of his turbulent emotions. Consequently, men of his like are condemned to endure the slander of society while harboring the knowledge that it is the only thing that stands between them and insanity. Few are ever granted the opportunity to fill the hollow spaces that lie within every heart, and it is for this reason that so many die with dreams undreamed, or loves unloved.

The cloaked man in the street was aware of this nature of human suffering, but he had borne his pain for so long that the vacant spots of his own interior were callused and rough with the passing of age. He was a rock against an ocean of prejudice and cruelty, and as of yet no swell or wave had crushed his resolve. But he was weathered all the same. He was weary from the constant vigilance it took to sustain himself before the tide of people. This evening he was spared for a few blessed hours, however, as it was Labor Day and celebration was in order for every working stiff in the city. All the buildings about him were filled with noise and laughter and people, and he alone walked the roads in the calm of the night.

Erik knew himself well enough now, after the battles waged within his guilty conscience, that he was among those that lived a life half empty. What splendid wonders and divine treasures, (the love of a certain young woman), that had surrounded him for the briefest of moments had now faded away, cast off by his own selfish greed. Thoughts like this plagued him always, and as he turned onto Bowery Street, he pulled the shroud of his hood lower over his face, although that did not hide the shame. Yes, the world had been a bitter enemy since his very first breath, but what had he done? Had he not tormented and frightened and kidnapped the only soul who had ever grieved for him? Had he not been the ghoul that reeked havoc on the only place where he had found some measure of peace?

Had he not murdered a man?

It was with this last and terrible question that Erik looked up and beheld a light on the road ahead. It burst forth from a set of massive double doors like a sunrise at the lip of the world. He knew the building at once: the Bowery Theater. (He should, having lived in New York for nearly four years now). The theater did this often, leaving the large oaken doors open at full length in order to appear more hospitable, which the owners believed would attract more sales. He had attended a few of the operas, always sneaking in through a hidden door he had discovered in the adjacent alley. He would stand in the foremost hallway, which was situated directly in front of the stage and led to the lower levels were the lobby was located. From that position, no one in the audience could see him. Anyone on stage could, however, if they looked hard enough into the shadows were he stood. A couple of times an actor or actress had staggered for a moment, perceiving someone lurking in that corridor but, being on stage, dismissed it quickly and went on with the play. At those times he couldn't help but smile with devious delight.

Now as he passed before the revealed inner hall, the orchestra struck up a lavish chord. From the ornate style and scale of the piece, he guessed that it was meant to accompany some billowing singer in their last grand aria. And he was right. As the strings faded back, the first piercing note of a young female voice drifted over the music like a wing over air. The moment that voice graced his ear he felt his heart stop in utter disbelief even as the ground beneath him swayed alarmingly. It was the voice that sang the lament of his dreams, both in his waking hours and as he slept. The same unearthly rapture flowed through it, as though an angel had come from heaven to sing aloud its lovely songs and so entice the awe of those who listened. It was _his_ angel.

He took off in a frantic dash across the slippery road, ignoring the front entrance completely and rounding the corner into the alley next door. There was a large dumpster resting beside the outer wall, and it was this that he moved aside with ease, since it lied upon a hinge and disguised the protruding brick behind it. With a practiced hand, Erik twisted the brick to reveal a hidden passageway that ran directly beneath the stage. He took off again, his mind in a haze as he passed up several doors at a stretch, and thus emerged into a secluded corner of the lower lobby. After checking that no one was within distance, he crossed quickly to the opposite hall and in this way came up to face the stage from the concealed corridor.

It was her, as perfect a picture as he had ever imagined. She stood center stage in the scenery of a blooming garden, wearing a satin gown of dark blue. A diamond pendant hung from a silvery chain around her neck. Her voice was as rich and full as that first night in Paris, when the world had beheld the loveliness he had known for months in private. The notes rang out with stunning clarity, echoing throughout the vast hall and causing him to shiver with emotion. She was smiling as she sang, and Erik felt that it was a genuine smile, true to her feelings. She was happy.

He had been waiting six years for this very moment; _Christine …Christine… _

At some point the instrumental solo began, and as she waited to take up the lyric once more, she glanced in his direction. And saw him. Of course, hooded as he was, he could have been any random soul standing there, watching the show from his solitary spot. Yet he could see from the way her eyes widened, and the way her smile slipped artlessly from her face, that she had recognized him, if only by the hint of his presence. There was an electric charge in that glance which held them both to it, locking their gaze to each other without any thought of looking away. He now realized that he had been deluding himself since the moment she had sailed away on that darkened lake beneath the opera house. Without her, there was no music.

She broke the connection first, turning back to the audience as she began to sing the climactic end of the song. Her smile reappeared, though slightly less sincere as it had been. As the orchestra hit the peak of its crescendo she drew in a deep breath and sang the last quavering note with such perfect splendor-and didn't he waver just a bit as her vibrato warmed his heart?-that the audience was on its feet before the sound had time to travel to the back rows. The applause were thunderous in their enthusiasm, and Christine stood there, radiant in her triumph, as admirers threw roses about her feet. While he watched, applauding himself in a dazed sort of way, she began looking in his direction once again, trying vainly to see over the heads of the cheering spectators. But he knew the moment had passed, and that he would surely crumble if he were to look into her eyes.

And so he left that way, followed by fading applause as he descended into the darkness, leaving the Bowery Theater behind with the memory of a brief glance that would haunt him for days.

* * *

Christine entered her dressing room in something of a state, trying to catch her breath and her senses while her insides churned in a nauseating fashion. Her skin was tingling, her heart was fluttering madly and, to add to the list, her mouth was severely dry. She dropped down into the nearest chair and closed her eyes, calming herself steadily with slow, soothing thoughts. She called up images of her father, looking handsome and learned as he vigorously played the violin. Or her and Raoul sitting on a throw in the lofty attic, eating sandwiches and drinking tea with many laughs to fill up the long hours of the afternoon. Yet these were interrupted by the image of Erik, standing before her in the narrow corridor in front of the stage, listening to her sing from the dark as he had always done. She hadn't seen his face, but she knew it was him. Had he only been a silhouette against the blinding overhead lights that glared from the rafters, she would have known it was him. The revelation brought only a mixture of delight and fear, which did not surprise her in the least.

Then, without so much as a knock, the door banged open and a cortege of supporters bustled in, laughing and chattering and carrying on. It was comprised mostly of ballet dancers and chorus girls, all with flowers and a praise to bestow upon the young soprano. Behind them, and looking supremely out of sorts in his business suit, came Raoul. He smiled warmly at her as he took to one of the corners, waiting for the jabbering women to finish their acclaims of his wife. Christine endured nearly twenty minutes of being continually congratulated and fawned over before she told the excited group that she was very tired and needed her rest. They all moaned in an indulging manner and trooped outside, leaving her alone with her thoughts and her husband.

"I wish they wouldn't do that," she said, indicating with a nod the noisome flock outside.

"They can't help themselves. Few have ever heard an angel sing," he said, his smile growing broader as he walked over to her.

"No voice on Earth is like an angel's," Christine replied, (thinking of a certain man who had sung a beautiful ballad to her in some other world), but she smiled at the complement nonetheless. He knelt before her and took her hands in his, staring warmly up into her face with loving affection. For a moment there existed in that touch the same fervor that had bound the two young lovers in the first years of their union. Yet she saw that he sensed something different between them, and instinctively he recoiled into his inner self, and the touch became cold.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, his eyes searching hers for the answer. "You seem agitated. Has something upset you?"

Once, not long ago, she would have answered him immediately, without question and in total faith of his regard. The years had borne a rift between them, however, and her silence only lengthened in the wake of his concern. On a starry rooftop they had confessed their love and been moved with passion by the harmony of their voices, intertwined by music of romantic depth. Now the symmetry of that song had become so soft that one could call it a whisper, if to hear it at all. She still loved him, and he her, but the passion, the _music_, had faded into a mild hum within the heart. How then, with such space between them, could she convey the joy and angst of beholding the composer of her music? The music of the night?

"Raoul….tonight as I sang….in the shadows….I thought I saw….," she began, trying to find a way to explain and falling short each time. He leaned forward and lightly kissed her lips, seeking to reassure her, but it only made her task more difficult.

"You can tell me, Christine. I'm right here, ready to listen," he whispered gently.

The words resting on her tongue weighed down like some retched curse that seemed both unutterable and undeniably inevitable. But she had known for six years that she would one day have to speak them, for the world was round and one could not travel its slope without coming back to the same point. This fateful triangle had been waiting, each within the recess of their own mind, for the very second when they would look upon one another, each changed and transformed, and wonder at the event which had severed them apart. So it did not surprise her that here, an ocean and an age away from Paris, she had beheld Erik, come to unite them and finish the second half of their tragic tale.

"Raoul, there was a man standing in the corridor tonight." She stood up and walked over to her dressing table, laying her fingers lightly on the back of the cushioned chair. Her reflection in the lighted mirror was flushed and apprehensive. With a deep sigh she resigned herself and turned to face him, but as their eyes met her resolve collapsed. Because he already knew.

"It's him, isn't it?" The finality of that tone was dreadful. "He's here in New York. The phantom. Erik."

_The face in the mirror._

She opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment the dressing room door opened yet again and in came the manager of the Bowery himself, Robert Legenyll. He was a tall, formidable man of thirty, with early streaks of gray at his temples. His eyes were also a disquieting shade of gray, accented by stern features and a sharp jaw line. He was followed by a young boy around the age of twelve who, with startling blue eyes and thick, black hair, was already developing into a handsome young man. His name was Pierre, and he was the personal servant of the latter, who had bartered his way from France to America. The pair were rarely seen out of conjunction with one another, as Legenyll was always calling upon the boy to do some trivial task for him. Legenyll was addicted to success and power, and flaunted it in as many ways as humanly possible, which explained the diamond pendant that Christine now wore. When she glanced over at Raoul, she saw the sour look of distaste that he usually wore when the manager entered a room he happened to unfortunately be occupying, and wished she could put on a similar air.

"Brilliant, my dear! Bravo! Bravo! Every night you sing we sell a full house," Legenyll praised, walking over to her and kissing her hand in formal fashion. "I've never seen anything like it. They come with roses at the ready, just waiting to toss them to the stage."

"Thank you, monsieur," she replied, giving him a small smile in return.

"You seemed particularly enthusiastic during your last performance," he commented, almost mocking in his gleeful tone.

"Oh, did she?" Raoul's voice inquired from behind. Legenyll turned with an expression of false surprise on his face, as though he had not noticed the young man, who was standing directly in the middle of the room. It was quite comical that two grown men who obviously despised one another had to play such games. Christine held a hand to her lips to conceal her smile. "I thought she was spectacular throughout the entire performance."

"Did you now?" Legenyll responded, and then turned his back without waiting for a reply. "As I'm sure you already know, I'm in the process of casting for what promises to be a most anticipated opera. It's called _Le Chambre Rouge, _imported all the way from your native France, and I would be much obliged if you would audition for the lead role."

"Of course. I would love to," Christine said at once, wanting desperately for him to leave so that she could continue her discussion about Erik. Raoul was fidgeting with irritability in his spot, and she knew he felt the same as well. But then the essence of his request struck home, and she started, giving the manager a double take. "Excuse me? What did you say?"

"I would love for you to audition for the new play. After tonight's performance, you've more than proved your talent, and therefore your worth to this theater," he said again, and she felt a cold shiver run the length of her spine as he smiled at her. It was almost a sneer, and possessed a conniving nature that was almost primal in its secretive meaning.

"Monsieur Legenyll," Raoul said, speaking sharply enough to make Pierre, who had gone unnoticed for the most part, jump nearly a foot into the air. "We appreciate your commendations and your kind offer, but Christine is tired and I wish to speak with her privately before she retires. So if you please…" He made a gesture toward the door .

"My apologies, mademoiselle. I will take my leave of you then," he said with practiced charm, and kissed her hand again. Yet this time it contained something akin to greed, and she felt repulsed and frightened to see the same compulsion regarding her in his eyes. It was blessedly a short contact, and then he was walking out the door, (completely ignoring Raoul), barking at the young boy to keep up pace. Pierre gave them both a fleeting look before following his employer out the door.

They both stood there for some time in the impending silence, lexis abandoning them as they strove for a coherent thought in the tumult of their surging emotions. Christine could scarcely feel the beat of her own heart, rapped up in an illusion that had come upon her out of the abyss of memory. It seemed to her that this was no longer the Bowery Theater, but the Opera Populaire, and that as soon as Raoul departed to fetch the carriage, a voice of terrible beauty would issue forth into the tiny room and draw her down into the depths with sweet lyrics of phantom dreams. And in the enfolding darkness she would sail across a forbidden lake into the lair of a fallen angel, and would sing for him until the music had carried her to heights of grandeur. It was this vision that she recalled at the beginning of this new chapter of her life, and would remember it some time later when the music again held her within its grasp.

Raoul came forward and took her hands in his, the fingertips cold as they encircled her own. He looked earnestly into her eyes, seeking to comfort a fear that only half existed in her mind. She knew his thoughts would be centered on images that would frighten anyone forced to recall there worst moments: a hangmen, a crashing chandelier, a noose. He was thinking of a madman run loose with a lasso and an obsessive temperament, with murderous and violent tendencies. To an extent, she was inclined to think the same, for Erik had preyed on her trust of him, and terrified her with threats upon Raoul's life. But dominating over everything else was one thought, clear as a bell, so immensely complex in its simplicity.

_Her angel had returned. _


	2. On Sacred Ground

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. If I did, I'd make this a sequel.

A/N: Thanks to all those lovely souls who reviewed my first chapter! I didn't know that it wasn't accepting anonymous reviews, but I fixed it, so now anyone who feels inclined can tell me what they think. There's another hint to the book in this one, of Erik being able to play the violin. I'm really getting into this story, even though it's only the second chapter, so please R constructive criticism is always welcome. Thanks again to those who did!

Now, on with the second chapter!

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Chapter 2: On Sacred Ground

The graveyard. Silence is almost a tangible substance within its boundaries. There are no quieter grounds on Earth, for even the dead themselves wander in places less hollowed. Souls haunt the living but the living do not live among the dead, and so the graveyard remains undisturbed save by the mere passing of humans, who are themselves compelled to tread softly in the lands of the departed. Even nature itself is held with mute fascination, for the heaviest snows yield only a still blanket over the graves. Yet these are not places of fear or even grief, but of remembrance, and so to a person seeking only silence in which to think, it is a safe haven from a noisome world.

Christine had no dead to mourn here, but graveyards had always been a strange comfort when she was in doubt. She walked among the headstones with her head bowed, singing delicately under her breath. She wore a dress of pale gray and no cloak, for it was still September and the day was warm, if overcast by dim, dreary clouds. Her voice drifted gracefully on the wind, carrying easily across the vacant cemetery.

"_Wishing you were somehow here again…Wishing you were somehow near…"_

She glanced ahead and saw a funeral bench resting neatly beside a thick oak tree, fully decorated in autumn colors. It looked to be the perfect spot, as solitary in the stillness as a beautiful painting hung in some vast ancient hall, a glimpse of a calmer peace that would never last. Yet while it did she meant to take the advantage, and sat down gratefully on the rough hewn stone. She sighed with relief, for it was on this obscure sight that the trepidation and surreal nature of the past few days melted to an almost nonexistent throb in the back of her mind. No phantoms lingered there to taunt the shadows of her memories, and so she was content just to remain there, singing to herself.

The week had passed before her as though she had been a spectator of her own life, standing on the periphery of everything that came and went. She saw herself wandering through the rooms backstage, looking and maybe even waiting for something to transverse her path. Nothing seemed to make contact, to touch the wasteland that had become her conscience, barren of all thoughts save one; Erik. Where was he? She knew he was lurking in the tread of her every footstep, in the shadow of her shadow. He was everywhere and everything, and yet he was never there. She couldn't continue like this, wondering if the next movement in the dark belonged to him. She had prayed to her father to give her the strength and send Erik to her, if only that they could end this momentary lapse in time. She sang to him, hoping that someone would hear the desperation that lay beneath every note. And someone did.

It was as she sat there that the first melodious notes of a violin drifted to her ear. She stilled her voice immediately and stood up quickly on legs of rising faintness. The sound was far off in the distance, soft enough to be lost completely when the breeze shifted the branches stridently above her. As she listened, with barely a breath between heartbeats, the sweet solo became a duet joined vigorously by the deep, harmonic chords of a cello. She realized it was one of the vagrant artisan groups that roamed the streets, playing on the corners for money or pleasure as the many citizens streamed by. They were hundreds of yards away. With a sigh of relief that made her slightly dizzy, Christine turned back from the music to find Erik standing quietly beside one of the last tombstones in the cemetery, watching her expressionlessly.

He wore the mask, the trademark of his essence.

It was the most unbalanced experience of her entire life, so jarring in its presentation and rapidity. Fear clenched every nerve in her body, rendering it immobile to movement or coherent thought. At the same time, a delirious elation seized her, immediately latching on to the reminiscence of a dream-voice, surpassingly breathtaking and tragically beautiful in the depths of its carven tones. These conflicting emotions were so intensely and equally powerful that they nearly ripped her in two with their opposite natures. Was it even possible for one soul to be endowed with such weight? It seemed so, for despite the whirlwind within there was stillness without, and she did not break.

The first words from his lips, trembling and barely audible; "I dream of you."

He took a step towards her, shakily and unsure, and she responded by taking a step back. Unfortunately, she collided with the bench and all but fell onto the stone seat, a little rush of air escaping her lungs like the whisper of a moan. A hand, gloved in black leather, extended gracefully from his side and was held imploringly outward to her, earnest and gentle in its motion.

"Please, don't fear me. I could never harm you, in any sense of the phrase. Never again," he said, and his hand trembled noticeably. He lowered it slowly, cautiously, his elegant yellow eyes never straying from the unfathomable russet of her own.

"I heard you singing," he whispered, the shadow of a nostalgic smile in his features. "Singing in the graveyard, and I followed the sound until I found you. I only wanted to see you, listen to your voice. Nothing more. Please, don't fear me. _Christine_." He closed his eyes as he uttered her name.

"Did you follow me here?" Her voice, so small, so vigilant.

"No. I was here before dawn. I come here often, to the mausoleum nearby, to… compose. It is…quieter there." His eyes glanced briefly in the direction of the city, nestled behind them like a world apart. His words came strenuously, with little gasps of air, as though he had forgotten how to breath when he spoke. "I was just thinking…of the Bowery Theater, and the night I…you did see me in the corridor?"

"I saw you," she replied feebly. "I wondered if I hadn't dreamt of it instead, when you did not return."

"I didn't want to scare you," he said, and ventured to take a step further. She could see relief in his eyes when she did not hasten to fall back. "I was sure my presence would upset you deeply, so I stayed away from the theater. But it was difficult. Your voice…is more beautiful than I dared to let myself remember."

"I could not have sang again if I had seen you in that hallway," Christine said, not unkindly and with complete honesty. When his eyes remained fixed unwaveringly upon hers, she realized with a stab of pity that she had said exactly what he had believed she would. Yet what he imagined with conviction as a statement of disgust and repulsion was actually a proclamation of uncertainty and doubt. She wanted, _needed_, to explain.

"I would have thought you were an illusion. Something I created to assure myself that you had even existed in the first place. That I had been visited by an angel in Paris." At the mention of the word angel, his eyes gleamed with commemoration and-was it longing she saw in those eyes? Those disconcerting eyes of an almost golden hue.

"I thought I'd never see you again," he whispered, his voice breaking and fading as a tear slipped from beneath the edge of his mask. Music; distant and poignant, filling up the space between them.

"Come to me." The words sounded strange and oddly muffled to her own ears. They had escaped her before she had even registered that she meant to speak them.

He did so immediately and without question, kneeling before her in the soft grass like a knight to his queen. His face was so alight with hope, bowed with such heart wrenching, terrible humbleness, that Christine had to avert her eyes and stare determinedly at her knee. Yet she could feel his eyes as that faded yellow gaze took her in, tracing the curve of her cheek, the shape of her eyes, the cascade of her dark curls. He didn't speak, and as the silence lengthened she grew apprehensive, the quiet more suffocating in his presence than when she had been alone. She regretted letting him come so close, and at the same time wished he would move closer, that she could feel the waves of his body heat wash over her and assure her that he was real, not a ghost.

The sudden idea that this was all a vivid and masterfully elaborate illusion encompassed her, constricting her chest with a coil of panic. She glanced up to meet his eyes and, without restraint but still somehow in control, she raised her hand to touch the mask.

He instantly recoiled, but managed with amazing self discipline to remain within reach. Rigid but resigned, he allowed her fingertips to make contact. The smooth leather felt flawless and warm from the heat of the skin beneath, conveying through touch that which her eyes saw with suspicion; he was real, not a phantom. She caressed it, not lovingly but with something close to dark curiosity, and as she did so his eyelids fluttered lightly, engrossed so deeply as to be nearly hypnotic. She pressed her fingers slightly deeper into the resiliency of the leather, and her thumb glided over a bump beneath the rawhide. It was a raised piece of flesh which would not have been present if the man in the mask had possessed a face of normal contours.

With shocking clarity her mind moved backward in time to the pivotal moment; the moment that had ever rendered a chasm between them. She had lifted the mask from his face to reveal the horror that had lain beneath, for years hidden in the darkness below the Opera Populaire. She remembered how he had turned, a look of wild ferocity and unbridled rage as he shoved her away, wounded beyond any thought of repair and stumbling to the mirror in so defeated a fashion. Staring at the reflection that he believed to be the damned and ultimate evil.

His eyes flew open. He had sensed some deviation in her touch, how the motion of her fingers had ceased. She drew her hand away, now staring at him with mounting fear as a cold sense of dread purged her system of the spell that had enchanted them both. He had killed a man, had _almost_ killed another, and had nearly taken her freedom, whisking her away to forever be chained in the dark with him. She did not know how much of that man still remained in the one before her, or if he had even reformed at all. If he wanted to, he could take her. They could be out of the city or halfway across the ocean before anyone realized she had disappeared. Her breathing ragged and her pulse drumming in her ears, Christine stood up. He stood up with her, studying her desperately to discover what had changed this warm afternoon into premature winter.

"Christine." His voice, so beautiful, so haunting.

"I have to go," she said through numb lips. "I have rehearsal in an hour, and then a performance this evening-"

"Go," he said softly, that one word expressing what he thought he could never do again. He would let her go. If only to see her smile again, he would let her go.

She turned and began walking toward the gates, her heart heavier than it had been when she entered. She tried not to imagine him standing there, watching her recede from his sight until the horizon swallowed her up. Of drifting through the graves well into the night, singing to himself with only the dead for company. As she tried to push such thoughts from her head, (and failed dismally), he called out to her, almost franticly.

"Christine! May I come and watch you tonight?" She turned and gazed upon his isolated form, still standing beside the massive oak. He was so alone.

"I'll sing for you," she called in return. "I'll sing for you…Erik."

She couldn't bare to look at him anymore. He had smiled with such joy, and even in that wondrous mark of ecstasy she had seen enough sorrow to drown the world twice over. Even in his elation she saw that he still believed himself to be a demon, hovering just outside the light of God but close enough to feel its love. As she made her way to the Bowery Theater, the word _alone_ echoed in her mind over and over again, keeping the beat of every footstep. Tears rolled endlessly down her cheeks, a glistening drop for every breath, and a world did indeed drown, if only in New York.

* * *

Christine went through her paces during rehearsal in a subdued manner, everything coming to her in a foggy haze. The maestro had to silence the orchestra several times in order to ask her to come out of her reverie and join them. The chorus huffed and complained while the ballet dancers retreated sullenly to their places again. It was a long and difficult process, the grumbling murmurs giving her a headache, and by the end of it she could have fainted with relief. Her dressing room was a sanctuary.

When she stepped inside, the first thing she noticed was a small envelope resting on her vanity. Scribbled across the top was her name. She recognized the handwriting immediately as Raoul's, and opened it with a little seed of disappointment blooming in her head. She was not surprised by what the note had to say.

_Dear Christine,_

_I'm sorry, but I can't come to the performance tonight. My meeting with the administrative board is going to carry over late into the night. I want to be there, really I do, but I can't leave the office in such a state. Please accept my apologies. And whatever you do, DO NOT leave the theater and walk home alone. Spend the night and I'll pick you up in the morning. We both know who could be waiting outside after the play._

_I know you'll sing beautifully; you always do. Be safe._

_Raoul_

She sighed deeply, laying the letter aside with sad detachment. He had not been to one of her concerts since the night Erik had appeared, and even that had been a rare attendance. He was always busy elsewhere, tending to matters on a commercial level of society, far from the affairs of artistic, passionate design. And ever since she had mentioned the figure in the corridor, she had spent every night alone in her dressing room, thinking of the bed she _should_ have been lying in, with the husband who _should _have been lying next to her. It wasn't even that she was upset at his absence, for she would not be so petty as to hold a grudge over so small an issue. It was that, for no fault of their own, a silence of ever deepening intensity had driven them to opposite sides of the stage.

They had not sang together since leaving Paris.

While pondering over these thoughts, there came an upsurge of voices in the hallway just outside her room. They quieted at once, but not before they had caught her interest. She glided softly to the door and pressed an ear to the keyhole, wanting to hear every word. One had made a reference towards a "disfigurement", and although the word could have been connected in accordance to any one of a number of subjects, her mental state at the present time linked it to the obvious subject in her own mind. And, as chance would have it, the correlation was actually true.

"I'm not joking 'bout this, damnit! I saw him a few nights back, right outside here on the street. He was wearing a rag on his face!"

"Well, how do you know he's scarred or not? Did he take it off?"

"No, but I know. Why else would someone put somethin' like that on their face? It sure as hell ain't to be stylish or nothing. Besides, you remember Windell up at the dock? He says he's seen a feller with a mask walking around near the harbor, even during the day. Says he might be living in wanna them abandoned warehouses they got down there."

"He's probably just some ugly beggar, likely as not. If he ain't disfigured, he's probably wanted somewhere. Could be a murderer or somethin', or maybe he robbed the Bank of England, for all I know. Probably people just yanking yer chain."

"No one ain't yanking nothing! I saw him, and next time I do, I'm gonna rip off that scraggly piece of cloth, drag him over to your house, and show you that I…."

The voices trailed away down the hall, leaving Christine rigid behind her closed door. How long had they known? How long had _anyone_ known? She was suddenly exhausted, overwhelmed by the crushing power of this huge city, which now seemed so small and personal. There was too much raw emotion, too much pain, too much bitter and blind hatred seeping through the walls, poisoning the air in her tiny room. The next few months stretched out before her like the view of the ocean from the port, holding infinite possibilities, each more terrifying in their uncertainty. How many more rumors? How many more lonely nights in this confined, theatrical prison? How many more visits from Erik, that frightening and tragic shadow in the graveyard?

Christine felt utterly and helplessly lost at that moment, but as endearing souls always do, she kept going. There was nothing else for it but to keep the ball rolling. As she changed into her costume for the first act, she sent a silent prayer to her father, hoping that an angel of any kind was watching over her.

* * *

He was there, watching her from the dark eves of the center egress. For most of the play, Christine was unable to look directly at him, being completely absorbed in the character, the interactions, and the duets she had to sing with other members of the cast. Yet she felt his eyes, always on her as she moved about the stage. When her own eyes did drift wanly to that darkened corridor, she could almost percieve the gleam of two yellow points within the blackness, like a pair of lanterns bobbing in the underground shroud of a subterranean mine. And when at last it was time for her shining moment, Christine stood centerstage and held the gaze of thatwraithlike glow, feeling so many emotions as to splinter her heart into a thousands shards of beating vitality. Her aria burst forth like a dove from the cage, every soul in the the audience quivering with awe, but she held that striking gaze, singing to him and him alone.

And whether Erik knew it or not, he had once again become the Opera Ghost.

* * *

Tell me what you think. I don't like to beg or anything but...PLEASE! R&R! (Sulks off, muttering nervously) Until next time... 


	3. The Midnight Garden: Part 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. I don't really own much of anything. Pity me.

A/N: Back again, I see! (Laughs delightedly) Thanks to one and all for the supportive reviews. They're like little treasures to me. Anyway, it might be two to three weeks before I can update again, what with midterms coming up and all. I hate to do that at the end of a chapter like this one, but I need the down time so I can start writing the next chapter with a clear head. In this one I tried to cast Raoul in a positive light. A lot of fans don't really like his character, (many wish the demons of hell upon him), but I tend to be sympathetic to the guy, especially since he's going to get ditched in one of the upcoming chapters. All the lyrics and play ideas are inventions of my own. Apologies in advance for grammatical errors; I couldn't catch them all in a piece like this if my life depended on it. Please review and tell me what you think. It always gives me courage.

Let the reading commence!

* * *

Chapter 3: The Midnight Garden, Part 1

The curtains were draped from the rafters like magnificent tapestries, perfect velvet hangings of a dark, luscious green. The stage was bathed in a cold, fluorescent radiance from the overhead lights, and the air was filled with the hum of reverberating strings as the orchestra tuned in the pit. The ballet stood frozen in graceful postures, waiting for the cue to enter in a glorious whirl of motion. The chorus, with their warmed and vibrant tones, hovered in the eves behind set. Everything existed in a state of suspended animation, held breathlessly in that moment just before the third and final act. The climactic scene in which the young and fair Olivia is reunited in the midnight garden with her true love, Armand, just after the famous masque in the royal ballroom. It was a beautifully moving duet, filled with hope and the liberation of love, and in this theatrical world that thrived of its own accord, was the equivalent of the perfect fairytale.

Yet Christine was oblivious to these wonders. Her attention was completely focused on two other things: Legenyll and Raoul.

The past two weeks had been drawing her to this inevitable peak, building upon the endless parade of darkened crevices and desolate nights and unchained melodies. Of thoughts filled with such strange splendor; of floating candelabras and sweeping passion and voices so powerful that they haunted the inlets of dreams. She only wanted to find some measure of solid ground, where she would not have to battle for every footstep, and had sought to obtain it before tonight's play began. She wanted to speak with Erik. She wanted to confide in Raoul. By trying to place these two inconsistent themes together, she had brought upon herself a paradox of deep confusion and dread. At some point, things had reached a critical mass, and from there the situation had spiraled downward in a quick succession of rapid events. Later, when she would have time to reflect, Christine would hold this night as a memory of precious fear and beauty.

She had finally confessed to Raoul of that fateful meeting among the graves, seeking to render some bond of trust between them, and was dismayed at the violent reaction that had emanated. He had become adamant in confronting Erik, to delve into the warped and unpredictable mind of that living ghost, and challenge any attempt of trickery before it had even been made. His quest had led him to this very night, when he had come for the first time in weeks to one of Christine's performances. As she had sung her ballad to that shadow among the shadows watching from the center outlet, her eyes had strayed for a moment to one of the studded box seats along the wall. The expression that Raoul carried nearly caught her breath on the last chord. He knew. He knew to whom she was singing, and where that person might be hiding. She tried to implore Erik to leave in that final glance before she left the stage, to warn him, but those redolent yellow eyes remained immobile.

When she checked the box seat a second later, Raoul was no longer there.

It was as she stood backstage, a sharp knot of panic rising in her stomach, that the second problem had presented itself. The dancers had just opened the third act, twirling and spinning in near perfect succession, when Legenyll appeared from around the milieu. A look of murderous intent covered his features, seeming to hone the stern lines of his profile. Christine felt an unexplainable chill pass through her. There was something in his character, in his demeanor, that suggested Legenyll's agitation and lethal appearance were not just surface deep. Fearing his antagonism might have something to do with Raoul and Erik, Christine turned her attention to the young servant, Pierre, who was treading inconspicuously behind the heated manager. She called softly to him and when he saw who was hailing him, slipped discreetly out of Legenyll's presence.

"Yes, mademoiselle?" he inquired, keeping his voice low so that Legenyll wouldn't mark his absence.

"What's going on, Pierre? Why is Legenyll so upset?" she asked tremulously. The boy's face paled slightly while, at the same time, took on an excited tint.

"One of the attendants in the lobby said they saw someone lurking around in the back hallways," Pierre whispered eagerly. "When some people were sent to check things out, they found a whole cask of smashed whiskey had been spilled in the prop closet. It looks like someone tried to start a fight down there in the corridor. It ruined tons of costumes and set boards, almost three thousand dollars' worth! And...," the boy drew out dramatically, glancing from side to side to make sure they were still alone," apparently, there's a burglar in the building, maybe the one who destroyed the props. He's wearing a mask. No one knows where he is right now."

Christine felt her throat constricting, hindering her feeble attempts to breath. It was all happening so fast, (as all intense situations are apt to be), and she felt a dim impulse in the back of her mind, telling her that she was helpless to stop any of it. Such undermining thoughts would get her no where, so ignoring them she calmed herself by focusing on what she needed to know, right here and now.

"Have you seen the Vicomte?" she asked urgently. The music was softening and some of the ballet had begun to exit the stage. Her entrance was approaching.

"Monsieur Raoul? I saw him earlier, coming out of the middle pathway," the boy replied. Her heart skipped a beat. .

"Was he with anyone? Did you see anyone else leave that same exit?" All the dancers were offstage by now.

"No one except Legenyll," Pierre said, eyeing her frantic insistency. "Is anything wrong, mademoiselle?"

"Christine!" A furious hiss to her right. She looked over and saw Legenyll staring at her incredulously. His eyes were over bright with a morbid vitality that she found to be chilling in its intensity. What else was going on around here? What else had happened? "It's your cue! Get on stage."

It took her a moment to register his words, but when she was finally able to absorb them, a new type of panic wormed its way into the silhouette of her troubles. Whether or not this night proved to be some momentous change in the scope of her life, she still needed the theater, the _music_. It was the only barrier against the tide that sought to engulf her. Hoping she could still hold some sway to the events around her, Christine listened carefully as the orchestra faded away into the silence. When the maestro began the intro once more, she took a deep, steadying breath and walked out onto the stage, letting the first silvery notes issue softly into the audience.

"_I thought I saw a glimpse of love…hiding in the flowers…" _

He wasn't there.

Her heart clinched painfully in her chest, but the sight was not unexpected. She felt barren and aimless as she stared at that empty void, its darkness a blinding flash of doubt. She had come to depend on those evocative yellow eyes, two unwavering candles in the murky regions of her mind. She had come to depend on them as much as her lingering dependency had once existed in Raoul. They had not spoken since that brief but pinnacle exchange in the graveyard, but messages still passed between them. She felt his presence during rehearsals, a sensation that both steadied and distressed her. When she slept fitfully in her dressing room, usually after a bout of silent tears, a voice would drift from above and sooth the core of her pain, her uncertainty, calming her fears until the sun returned to strengthen her will and resolve. And as always, he watched from the center aisle. Until now.

She concentrated on her lines, trying to focus on becoming Olivia, that inexperienced but honestly true young lover, and disappear into the character. There she would take shelter until the end of the duet, hiding inside the facade of the lovesick maiden, and then would immediately proceed to the lower lobby to find Raoul. Or Erik. Or Legenyll. Or anyone who could explain what had happened while she had lingered backstage, alone in the midst of a melodramatic scene that belonged to no play, but to her _life_. Her last line drifted off into a pretentious pause, the crystal lyrics overpowering the music for just a second before they both diminished subtly into the stillness. Now Armand would enter, singing a variation of her first line. She decided in that short recess to skip the curtain call. Legenyll would just have to deal with it.

_"I thought I saw a glimpse of her...walking through the flowers..." _Everything fell away in the wake of that voice.

It was Erik.

* * *

Everything had been a series of misguided deeds and unintentional mishaps from the moment he had entered the theater. Nothing could have prepared him for the array of accidents and events that had led him to the point where he stepped into the limelight. All he had wanted, after watching his beloved during rehearsal for two tremulous and vacillating weeks, was to stand in that interior exit and listen to her. And that was what he had been doing successfully for quite some time, until Christine had wavered on the last note of her solo. It was so faint that he had probably been the only one to register it, but it had still been there. Her eyes had wandered back to him, filled with apprehension and foreboding. He could not tell from his position what had upset her so, and stared anxiously after her as she made her way offstage. Then after that, simply said, everything went to hell.

"You." A venomous whisper from behind.

He turned and came face to face with Raoul, the young man he had nearly strangled to death an eon ago in a city across the sea. He stood with his feet apart, tensed and poised as though ready for an assault. It was too dark to read his face, but Erik could imagine the expression it held at the moment. Utter and complete loathing, a look of sheer and pure malice. And fear. Not for himself but for Christine. It was this fact that had refrained him from striking out against the young man, knowing that he had come to protect her against the tormentor of her previous life. The tension between the few feet that separated them seem to electrify the very air they breathed, constricting the atmosphere into a taut globe where there existed only two people.

"Raoul," he said, the name sounding strange from his lips. "I've not come for Christine, nor will I ever again. I only wish to hear her sing."

"And why should I believe that?" the vicomte asked. "All I know of you says otherwise."

"It does, but I have nothing else to give but my word," Erik replied, adding a tone of steel to convey the meaning clearly. "I am a changed man."

Raoul snorted. "A changed man? I have many doubts in that regard. Changed men don't stalk the same prey."

Those words stung him like a sharp prick from the thorn of a rose. Was this truly how Christine felt of his presence? Did she believe that he had come, once again, to haunt her from the eclipse of the darkness? Erik was suddenly filled with a terrible self-skepticism of his actions. He could not discern clearly the why and wherefore of his ever increasing visits to the Bowery, and how he had actually come to depend on those moments when her face and her voice became his world and pervaded his eyes and ears with surpassing exquisiteness. It now all seemed so appallingly wrong. He was slowly but surely reverting back to the man he thought he had killed.

The phantom he thought he had unmasked.

The corridor was abruptly filled with the sound of approaching footsteps. Both Erik and Raoul started at the noise, for some odd reason both feeling the same impulse to shrink away from the intruder. Erik retreated to one side of the hallway and Raoul the other, allowing enough space so that someone could pass easily between them. Two silhouettes bypassed in the dark, only a hand's reach from either of the crouching figures. One was tall and lean, sporting a slight but sturdy build, while the other was shorter and much more slimmed in stature. From his many wanderings and mischievous adventures within the theater, Erik recognized the two forms instantly, as though they were merely characters from a favorite novel. Legenyll and Pierre.

"Is this the passageway he was referring to?" a voice asked. Crisp and stern. Legenyll.

"Yes, sir," another voice replied. Tentative and abiding. Pierre.

"And how long since anybody decided to inform me of a prowler in _my_ theater?"

While the two engaged in a short discussion of the man less than three feet away, the man himself began to edge along the wall toward the front of the exit. He had no wish to be discovered and thus be banished from his secret hideaway, in which he knew the only happiness he had dared to seek out in several years. He turned left at the end of the passage, cut across a corner of the lobby and entered the bisecting hallway, speeding up his pace as he gained distance. He felt vulnerable here, for it was an almost incessant expanse of doors with no adjacent halls, giving him no cover if someone were to enter it from a nearby room. Yet it appeared that everyone was busy elsewhere, tending to the play on the upper level. He was profoundly saddened by the fact that he would miss the rest of Christine's magnificent performance, but in the best interest of returning to hear her at all, Erik decided that now was the time for a discreet exit. He had just reached the door that would lead him back to the entrance in the alleyway, however, when an indignant shout reached his ears.

Raoul. Damn that man! Without hesitation, Erik turned and fled up the corridor in the opposite direction, abandoning the door as a means of escape. He did not want the vicomte to know of his end and outs into the theater, for fear that he would have them barred. Instead, he hoped he could lose the young man in some of the back hallways and thus return when the coast was clear. He had devoted a great deal of time into exploring the Bowery, and had acquired a working knowledge of secret channels and conduits for his efforts. Now he would see just how beneficial that information could prove.

Their hammering footfalls echoed stridently off the walls, giving the impression that there were numerous amounts of people running about as apposed to just two. Erik could feel that he was outdistancing Raoul, gaining the lead as he pressed himself onward. They would soon come upon another intersecting passageway, and it was there that he planned to disappear into an adjoining room. He was flying now, letting his momentum carry him further than his feet were actually able to sustain. He couldn't have slowed to confront Raoul if he wanted to at this point, so engrossed was he with keeping this grueling pace. He turned his head partially around and saw that Raoul was actually much closer than he had estimated. The young man called out to him, something inaudible with the blood pounding in his ears, and Erik turned forward again just in time to see a blur of color before he ran headlong into the somebody who had entered the corridor.

The man was carrying a heavy laden box, staggering from the storage room under its weight. He looked up into time to see Erik charging down the hallway, straight into his path, but there was no time for him to avoid the collision. Erik hit him full force, knocking the crate from his arms with the impact. Two dozen bottles of whiskey fell to the floor with an awful crash, permeating the entire length of the hall with the sound of shattering glass and the caustic smell of liquor. The man tripped over backward, grabbing hold of Erik's shirt as he did so and pulling him after. At the same time Raoul hurtled into the pair, not being able to cease his own forward motion, and all three toppled forward. At the last second, Erik thrust his weight to his left, hoping to dodge the bits of broken glass, and ended up steering them all into the door immediately to their flank. He and Raoul hit the door broadside, forcing it inward with a bang as it smashed into the wall, but the third man was not so fortunate. With a sickening thud, the man's head connected with the doorframe and he was rendered instantly unconscious, falling limply into the room behind them.

It took a moment for everything to settle. Erik saw through a fuzzy haze that they had tumbled into the prop closet, distorted objects hovering in and out of focus. When his vision cleared, he was able to distinguish between the separate costumes and cardboard figures amassed in the tiny room. He sat up to gain a better view of his surroundings, a dull throb beginning to emerge at the back of his head as he did so. The smell of whiskey was nauseatingly strong here, and when he glanced to the entrance, he saw that most of the liquor had seeped into the room. He was sitting in a pool of it. Nearby, Raoul was crouched in it as he bent over the motionless form of the third man, who was now _soaked_ in it. Erik raised himself to his knees and joined Raoul at the side of the comatose figure, sending little ripples through the waves of whiskey.

"Is he dead?" Erik asked, his voice tight and strained.

"No, he's still alive, but he won't be conscious for several hours I fear," Raoul replied, an odd note of regret in his tone. All thought of enmity seemed to have been forgotten at the moment. "This man is an actor. I've seen him before, in other plays. He was supposed to be singing with Christine tonight."

Erik's head jerked up, sending a short but painful jolt through his temples. Ignoring it, he asked, "If he's supposed to be singing with her, then why is he down here? By now the beginning of the third act will have started."

"I don't know, but without him they will have to cancel the end of the performance. He plays Armand," Raoul said, and then turned to Erik, his eyes lingering on the fated mask for a brief pause. Then he said resolutely, "We must take him to a hospital. He needs a doctor for that gash on his forehead."

Erik shook his head at once. "I can't, and you know that. Too many people, too many questions."

"I can't carry this man alone!" Raoul shouted angrily, forcing himself to glare into those disquieting yellow eyes. "He could bleed to death or...I don't know; the wound might get infected if it's not treated properly. He needs medical care and I can't get it for him on my own. I need your help to carry him out of here." He stared at Erik intently, trying to assess his character with only his eyes, wondering if this man had really changed at all, and if it was for the better. Again, his gaze shifted to take in the image of the mask.

"Where's the nearest hospital?" Erik asked, his voice weary but defiant. Every nerve in his body cried out against his decision, but Raoul was right; he could not leave this man here like this, possibly to die for lack of attention. He was responsible for too much grief as it was. He could only hope that he would be able to slip away once the job was done.

"I think there's one only a few streets over," the vicomte responded, seemingly grateful that Erik was not going to offer anymore opposition. "If we carry him out the back, near the stables, we can cut through the alleyway-"

Raoul was cut off suddenly by a riotous upsurge of noise in the corridor outside. The sounds of incensed voices and hurried footsteps reached them as they sat there, huddled near the inert figure on the floor, bathed in a swamp of liquor. They were obviously trying to figure out from what direction all the commotion had originated, but it would not take them long to discover the ruined props and the unconscious form in the closet. Raoul turned back to him, a look of such sullenness and acidity that Erik thought the young man was about to strike him. Instead, he sighed with a hard but determined air.

"Go," he said bitterly, his mouth almost curling into a sneer. "Go, now, before they get here. There will be enough men to help me carry this one. I'll distract them for only a few moments, but that should give you enough time."

"Why?" Erik asked suspiciously, dubious and bemused at this unexpected turn in Raoul's attitude. And strangely moved. "Why would you do that for me?"

"Why else? For Christine," he replied simply, and stood up. He winced as he rose, his muscles cramped from crouching so long. He walked over to the door, splashing softly through the thin film of whiskey. As he reached the threshold he hesitated, for a moment only a black figure surrounded by light from the exterior corridor. He twisted around and fixed Erik with a calm but gauged look, analyzing the masked man in his entirety as he spoke one final warning.

"Don't come near Christine again, Erik. If you do, I'll kill you." With that said, he was gone.

* * *

It took Erik only a split second to decide what he wanted to do. He glanced about the room for anything that he could wear, and saw that in a distant corner there hung an assortment of costumes which had escaped the flood of liquor. He jumped up and snatched one of the outfits from its hanger, slipping out of his drenched and pungent traveling cloak. The suit was of an innate blue, and made of a soft, suede material, but that was not his reason for choosing this particular attire. Part of the ensemble contained a mask. He removed the rest of his disheveled garb and put on the suit, feeling transformed and strengthened by the clean, aristocratic feel of the fabric. Lastly he took off his mask, cringing at the open and exposed feeling without its presence. He quickly slipped on the other mask, disliking the hard, inflexible material it was made of but resigning himself to the discomfort. He put his own mask within the folds of his shirt.

Raoul's words meant nothing to him. The young man had shown an extraordinary reservoir of determination and self restraint in this first meeting, which Erik admired, but that did not diminish his own resolve in the least. Christine was all he had, all he had _ever_ had, and he would not be deterred by a few harsh words and sentiments. He knew that by doing this he would further the animosity between them, but that couldn't be helped. His very existence created tension in the vicomte.

Erik leaned out into the hallway. There was a mass of dark shapes lingering near the end of the corridor, mingling about and talking in loud bursts of anxiety. Judging that there focus was most likely directed at Raoul, Erik darted out from the prop closet and dashed across the hall. He entered through the door opposite, which was another storage unit. From here he could make his way to the upper level by a network of hidden routes, which would essentially lead him to the stage. He wrenched from the posterior wall what appeared to be an old and forgotten background set, revealing a secret passage behind it. He entered this and proceeded through a series of twists and turns that eventually led him to another door. With careful deliberation, he swung the door out slowly and stepped cautiously into Christine's dressing room.

From here it was only a matter of timing. He exited the room when he was sure no one was watching, (not wanting anyone to spy a strange man sneaking around among the private quarters of the actors), and presently made his way to the offstage area that was now encompassed by dozens of chorus and ballet girls. Many stared at him with puzzled, leery expressions, and some even with alarm. He felt pretentious and even somewhat guilty under their gaze. It had been so long since he had allowed this many eyes to fall upon him, alienating himself from the world in the merciful blanket of his own solitary despair. And now an entire theater awaited his arrival, literally hundreds of minds anticipating the appearance of Armand, Olivia's true and only love. He took up his position beside the curtains, his stomach churning with unease and apprehension.

There she was, lamenting to the audience of her plight with love. He shivered as the last words passed gloriously between her lips, fading away sadly as she waited for the next lines to be sang. His lines. He had watched her rehearsals every moment for two straight weeks, experiencing every chord as though he had sung it himself. He knew the lyrics of every character in the play, both minor and major, and most especially those of this final, breathtaking scene. And had he not envisioned himself here, singing this very duet with his love, even though he had believed such a dream could never come true? He filled his lungs with a shaky breath and sang:

_"I thought I saw a glimpse of her...walking through the flowers..."_

Numb but somehow still full of passion, he stepped into the midnight garden.

* * *

A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! Until next time, my dear readers. 


	4. The Midnight Garden: Part 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. I thought maybe for Christmas but, alas, no such luck...not even Gerard Butler in a stocking...

A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed a safe and happy holiday. Thanks for all the wonderful reviews, perfect little Christmas gifts. I'm really anxious to see what you guys think of this one, especially since I added an important element to the growth of the antagonist, Mr. Robert Legenyll. It's not huge, just the tip of the ice burg, but it is essential for his development in the next few chapters. I'm always interested to hear what you think, so, you know...yeah...

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 4: The Midnight Garden, Part 2 

A sigh of sheer delight and anticipation swept through the audience as Erik's divine, celestial voice pierced the soul of every living thing in the Bowery Theater. That one silver line was almost enough to shatter the fragile encasement of the human heart. Yet they were only the breath of the wind in his mind. A strange sensation took hold of him as he stepped onto the stage. The audience, the whispers, the glaring stage lights; even the theater itself melted away like the morning mist at sunrise, evaporating into the nothingness without a trace to mark it had ever been there at all. He could suddenly feel the night air, as real and tangible as his own person. The moon was no longer a two dimensional slab of cardboard, but a glorious, revolving orb that bathed the scene before him in an incandescent loveliness. The only things that existed were himself, Christine, and the midnight garden. All else was irrelevant and therefore faded into a pocket of unreality, leaving him alone with the smell of genuine flowers and the feel of his own heart, beating with more vivacity and life than he had felt in six years.

She stood rigid and immoveable at the edge of the garden. He held his breath in a horrible, incessant moment as he waited for her to turn to him. For she would have to turn for the music to continue. But would she? Had he just trespassed the severely frail and delicate thread which so feebly connected them? If he were to look into those eyes and see a film of phobia and horror, he would surely perish. This was not Don Juan, and there was no awful, climactic moment of terror to which they were both being pulled, but to appear once more from the shadows behind the curtains...it could prove too much for her will to abide by. Too much like the teetering passion play just before the plunge into darkness. All he wanted was her, to help her, to love her, to keep her safe. To protect her even from himself, if his fortitude should falter. He wanted to sing with her, just one last time.

She turned to him, and the music rose steadily around them.

There _was_ fear in her eyes, but not the encompassing and despondent gleam that he had dreaded. It was the fear of uncertainty and confusion, of not knowing the motive or the intent. There was also a glimmer of hope, faint and light and distant, but still there. She was so breathtaking, so resplendent, that for a moment he couldn't find the strength to sing. That she was here, and that some measure of trust could be forming between them, was what upheld his nerve.

_"Every passing moment...of every passing day...I kept you in my memory...to help me find my way..."_

As he reached the end of the next line Christine began to sing, overlapping his voice on the last word. They moved toward each other with an eerie sort of grace, the articulation of her voice entrancing him like a siren to the ships at sea. With so much aspiration and desire to entwine the heartstrings, he held out his hands to her, no longer covered by the impersonal gloves of his past, but bare and warm and vulnerable. She paused, her eyes running over the secrets concealed behind his mask, a look of such unsure hopefulness passing between them that his entire being ached with it. She sang her last singular line and then, with exquisite tenderness, laid her hands within the folds of his own.

A wondrous release was embodied in that touch. Lyrics continually elapsed between them, a trading of words as the orchestra carried them onward, and Erik felt that but for the simple warmth of her smooth palm he would lose himself in the majesty of the beat. At times their voices seemed to blend together in perfect symmetry, a seamless harmony that interwove throughout the core of their mingled vibrato. The only moment in his memory that even came close to this was the night he had revealed himself to her, and thus led her down into the labyrinth of shadows were he had dwelt for time out of thought. How glorious their voices had echoed in the dark, alighting the dim and undisturbed air with stunning melodies, when she still believed him to be her benevolent angel. Whenever they had sang together pending that ghostly trek to his lair, it had been overcast by terror and obsession, not a single note as unmarred as those that passed between their lips this night.

He had not sang since that awful climax in the underground of Paris, when she had sailed away.

Now as the music circled them in flowing currents of rhythm and cadence, they held onto one another with a desperate need and the promise of better tidings than those that had torn them apart. Their voices intermixed and swelled to a spectacular apex of rapture, the timbre of their duet sending a tremor of ecstasy through the audience. Even the opulence of the music paled in comparison.

_"My heart is yours to carry...as it shall always be...I'll never lose my way again...if you'll always stand by me..."_

As the music dissipated into the depths of the theater, as their voices softly faded into a melodious decrescendo, as thunderous applause rumbled the very stage on which they stood, Christine smiled at him. It was so enchanting, so genuine and sincere, that Erik found himself humbled in its glow. His own smile was soft and gentle in reply, no outward display of emotion even capable of imitating the joy he held within. In a stupor of pure elation, still holding her delicate hands between his own, Erik led Christine offstage as the curtains fell and obscured them from view.

* * *

Christine immediately took Erik to an alcove situated beside a short staircase, which led to the hollow just beneath the stage. The tiny nook was so discreet that many bypassed it without ever realizing its existence, and so was the perfect little hideout for those not wanting to be found. Or overheard. As they moved through the entourage of those backstage, heads turned and eyes widened at the stranger in their midst. Christine kept glancing around nervously, sure that at any moment Legenyll would appear from some dark den and at once accost this odd intruder. Yet through it all Erik remained unshakably at ease, holding her hand and following without any resistance, or posing any questions as to their destination. In fact, he nodded at the onlookers with a complacent sort of gratification that she could not help but find a little amusing, under the circumstances. 

She pushed him in first, then followed closely behind, pulling a background set partially in front of the entrance to conceal what little view remained. There was enough light from the distant corridor to illuminate only half of Erik's profile, the rest of his features cast into an impenetrable gloom. Half a soul still lost in the dusk. Such a profound emblem of the man before her struck a triad of inexplicable awe in Christine. A shudder passed through her, one that he could feel as well as see, and which caused him to grow anxious at her disquiet.

"I didn't plan this, Christine. Not any of it," he tried to assure her, those yellow, transcending eyes imploring his honesty to her. "So much happened so fast...it was my fault...the accident that occurred in the lobby..."

"Where's Raoul?" she asked hesitantly, not knowing if she wanted to hear the answer. When Raoul had disappeared from the box seat, her initial alarm had been for Erik, standing unawares with his back to the entryway. Yet now, with him clearly unharmed and in her presence, her anxiety shifted to the whereabouts of her husband. In regards to Erik, she still maintained a considerable amount of wariness as to his aims. "And where is Monsieur Waymend, the one who portrayed Armand?"

"Raoul is fine. We did not fight, though he confronted me in the hallway. As for Monsieur Waymend," he trailed off, glancing down uneasily at the floor. With a deep sigh, he raised his head to meet her gaze, an edge of guilt to his posture that at once made her apprehensive. "As I was trying to leave, running from the lobby with Raoul chasing after me, I crashed into a young man exiting a closet. We fell into the doorframe...he was knocked unconscious. Monsieur Waymend will be all right, I left him with Raoul, but he couldn't perform in his condition. I thought, I mean I_ knew _that-"

"That without him, the show would be ruined," Christine cut in, comprehension seeming to light up the small space between them. "You came to save the third act."

"I came for you," he said softly, and squeezed the hand he held. "I couldn't stand the thought of you singing alone. To wait for a voice that would never come. Not while it was in my power to keep the music alive."

"You sang beautifully," Christine whispered, her own voice trembling with emotion. "My heart felt so light...I had forgotten how fair and heavenly it was, whenever you would sing to me. Whenever we would sing together."

"It is the _only_ time I have ever sang with such fervor, such passion," he replied, his eyes over bright with ardor. "For I have only ever sang for you, and you alone."

As overwhelming as it had been for the past few weeks, the trepidation and uncertainty now wilted into nonexistence as easily as the passage of a dream. She saw no deceit or pretense in his manner, only an acute yearning for insight to her emotions so that he could ease her restlessness. He no longer exemplified the mainstay of her fear. He was merely Erik, the man he should have been long ago, before his soul had been corrupted by dark caverns and the oppression of his own solitude. Whatever mania that had driven him in earlier years was now gone, consumed by the inner light that demanded to be seen. The hands she held were not cold, as her memories insisted they should be, but tepid and real, thawed by the long search for self redemption. In place of her fright there arose a wonderful sense of revelation, as though it were the first time she had ever beheld her angel in such splendid openness. And indeed, perhaps it was.

"Erik, I'm so glad you came to New York," she said, and felt a marvelous smile, more sincere even than the one born from their duet, spread across her face. "Tonight was superb. Though we only sang together for one blessed act, I will remember it always. Thank you."

The gratefulness in his eyes nearly ripped her apart.

"May I come and see you again?" he asked thickly, his breathing shallow. It was on her lips to say yes, that she couldn't sing another night without his music, when a series of shouts issued in the distance.

"Christine! Christine, where are you?"

It was Raoul. And Legenyll. Both were calling her name, one with heartfelt concern, the other with a cold and demanding edge. Yet she was loath to let either one discover Erik here, still in the theater after the chaotic mess that had ensued downstairs. She stared up into his face, apprehension of another sort filling her heart with dread, and saw that same emotion was reflected there. But his anxiety was not for his own welfare, but for hers.

"I don't like Legenyll," he said at once, a frown creasing his features. "The man seems to have a double motive. I have only ever seen him from a distance, and tonight in the corridor, I heard him speak. But something tells me he's up to no good."

"Whatever he's up to does not matter now," Christine replied. "You have to go before they find you here."

"You did not answer my question," he said, and she was astounded to see a small smile starting at the corners of his mouth. "May I come and see you again?"

"Yes Erik, of course you can, but for now you must go!" she whispered frantically, beginning to lead him from the alcove. "Follow these stairs to the bottom, then-"

"Leave by the door at the far end, which opens into the alleyway," he finished. She was not surprised in the least that he already knew this. At the top of the stairs he paused, gazing intently at her with such concern in these last few moments. "Be wary of that man, Christine. I feel he may have some twisted plot in mind."

"I will." He began to descend, stepping slowly backwards so that he could look up at her. They still clasped hands, each second the contact becoming more precious but ever more distant. She watched as the shadows reached forward to pull him down into the veil of darkness, the luminosity of his eyes becoming more prominent as he receded into the gloom. She felt his warmth slip between her fingers until it disappeared, and then watched forlornly as he turned and vanished beneath the stage.

* * *

Raoul embraced her with shaky relief, as though he had expected her to have been spirited away while he lingered in the foyer. When he pulled back, she saw in his expression a steely determination, and knew instantly that he had seen Erik on the stage, had heard his voice echoing into the hollows of the theater. Legenyll stood at his side, a sour expression of disdain etched into every line of his face. No doubt he too had seen the illustrious figure on the stage. The atmosphere was electrified with excited babbling and high spirits; everyone was talking about the mysterious events that had occurred during the duration of the performance. It was already spreading that there had been an intruder of sorts in the theater, and that he had assaulted poor Mr.Waymend, knocking him unconscious with his crate of whiskey. Or that there had been several intruders, and that they had gotten into an argument over what they should steal, and poor Mr.Waymend had unfortunately been caught in the fray. Or that _poor_ Mr.Waymend had simply gotten too drunk to even stand up, and some kindly soul, who just happened to be passing by at the time, recognized him as the lead actor and had heroically entered the third act. Or had possibly rendered poor Mr.Waymend unconscious _because_ he wanted to be in the third act. 

It was at times like these that Christine could fully appreciate being part of the theater.

"Where is he?" Legenyll asked gruffly, searching those backstage as though he expected Erik to appear at any second. "I want to know who he is and why he disrupted the production of my theater!"

"I don't know where he is, monsieur, nor who he is," Christine replied, meeting his gaze steadily as to invoke a feel of honesty. "Though had he not appeared in place of Monsieur Waymend, I daresay the performance would have been ruined." She did not glance at Raoul as she spoke.

"If you'd like to talk about ruined, mademoiselle, I suggest you take a stroll down to the prop closet on the lower level," Legenyll said, his voice shaking with repressed anger. "I've nearly a thousand dollars worth of sets and costumes to replace, not to mention an injured employee who may possibly still be indisposed when we begin rehearsals tomorrow. It's been an ongoing nightmare from the start of the third act."

He was solely distressed by his financial affairs alone, his rage stemming from a loss in materialistic values. Even as she thought about it, Legenyll turned his attention on her once more, a new and suspicious light dominating his character, and Christine felt a chill pass through her heart. On most occasions, she found him to be pathetic, manipulated easily by his desire for worldly possessions, a person to be pitied rather than feared. But at times like this, she found his remote and calculating stare to hold a cunning vindictiveness of great magnitude. His gray eyes held a lethal intelligence, and she pondered over Erik's last words.

"Are you quite sure you have never seen that man before, my dear?" he inquired. His tone was mildly casual but his eyes were morosely intent.

"Even if I had seen him before, I would not have recognized him. Or did you not see, Legenyll? He wore a mask." Her voice was stiff and formal, her eyes blatant and unyielding. She knew she could not uphold her own in such a battle of wills, entirely exhausted by the night's events, but was mercifully spared the attempt by Raoul.

"Monsieur Legenyll, I am deeply sorry for all the upset this evening, but it appears that Christine knows nothing of the timely intruder," he said, his voice curt enough to redirect Legenyll's consideration. Reluctantly, he looked away from her. "Christine has undoubtedly been shaken by this stranger's appearance, certainly anyone would be alarmed if confronted by an unfamiliar person in situation like that. I'm sure you'll agree."

Christine felt a rush of deep affection for Raoul at that moment. Despite their animosity towards one another, he would not surrender Erik's identity.

"Indeed, indeed," Legenyll murmured, nodding his head slightly as though he understood. "It seems I have more investigating to do in the matter, so I'll be off. I sincerely hope the rest of your night is peaceful, mademoiselle. Take care, and do not worry; we will catch the trespasser." As usual, he ignored Raoul.

Even after he had departed, Christine felt the concentration of his gaze lingering over her. He knew that she had been lying, which added deeply to her disquiet, for Legenyll was relentless in pursuit of his own goals and would not hesitate to strike down anyone who strayed into his path. And now Erik was standing right in the middle of that road. Raoul put an arm around her and they left the theater without a word between them, setting out into the cool September night. A carriage stood silently at the curb, waiting to carry them off towards home. As Christine stepped up into the coach, she believed she could still feel his eyes on her, penetrating the thick walls of the Bowery to follow the trail of his prey.

* * *

He watched her leave from the shadows of the curtains, a hungry and disturbingly vivacious light gleaming in his storm gray eyes. Whatever secrets she held, whatever thoughts she desired to keep in the privacy of her mind, would soon be his to know, to expend and exploit as he wished. She would not keep hidden such vital information as that which he coveted; the name of the intruder. No one would slip past his domain and go unpunished, for he was tied in good faith with other organizations more prestigious and influential than the Bowery Theater. What irked him the most was that the man had escaped, leaving behind a muddled mess and painting him as an upright fool. And whoever the ignorant and foolhardy bastard may be, he was coming dangerously close to his property. To his store of liquor, (however illegally it was obtained), to the props of the theater, to people in the theater, to the theater itself. 

And to Christine. Much too close.

"Mr. Jessup," Legenyll murmured to one of the men standing there in the dark with him. There were several others, mere shadows lost to a deeper blackness, but they would all obey him. Whether driven by fear or wealth or insanity, or perhaps all three at once, they would all obey him. "I have a job for you, and possibly a few of your contemporaries."

"Yes, sir," Mr. Jessup replied. "What would you have us do?"

"The young soprano, Miss Christine Daae-," Legenyll began, but one of those standing by interrupted.

"I thought she was Madame Vicomte, a married woman," the voice insisted. It started to speak again, but a glance from Legenyll silenced it immediately.

"Her husband is of no consequence. She'll not be keeping her married name for much longer, I suspect," he allowed, and a cruel snicker emanated from his throat. "As I was saying, Miss Daae may not be fully aware of the dangers involved in consorting with men such as the belligerent fellow who broke into the theater tonight. It is for this reason that I want someone posted with her at all times, though without her knowledge. We wouldn't want to worry the poor dear. And I also want you to do some background searching; look for any odd happenings or suspicious characters that have been spotted in New York for the past few months."

"Sir?" Jessup. "What should we do if we catch tonight's prowler, either in the city or during the performance next week?"

With a morbid humor as appalling as the nature within, Legenyll let a twisted smile creep out from the dim interior of his soul.

"Be creative."

* * *

A/N: What's Legenyll planning for Christine? Is Erik in danger? Find out next time. Until then... 


	5. Clashes

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. I have a little cup of Phantom, and the mask turns white when you put hot liquid in it...um, yeah...

A/N: Howdy and hello! It seems like some time has passed since I last updated, and I'm sorry if it seems that way to you, my dear reader. As always, a warm thank you to all those who reviewed my last chapter, especially those such as draegon-fire and Luckii Jinx, who have given me many in depth reviews. Also, thanks are in order to my new beta reader, Counter Spark. (Yes, the one who's been leaving all those psychotic reviews on my review board). This chapter has been a long one to write, so I hope you enjoy it. Please review, and I hope to hear from you as I work steadily onward through my next few chapters. Now start reading!

* * *

Chapter 5: Clashes

_Who was that shape in the shadows? Whose is the face in the mask?_

Phantom thoughts, phantom dreams. Sweet, dulcet tones from the enfolding layers of memory. Sometimes as she passed silent hours in the graveyard, faded music from long ago pulsing in her mind, bittersweet tears of regret and undead tragedy would glide slowly down her cheeks like beads of delicate glass, burning her skin with their liquid grief. The dormant volatility of Erik's darker half, the inexplicable beauty he could coerce from simple notes on a page, how the mask he wore symbolized the periphery between them; it all became a twisted mass of insurmountable sorrow against the onslaught of man. How could anyone rise above such a bleak and terrible fate? A fate that had driven him to obsessive madness and murder? To have a voice that scorched the temperate air but doomed to hide it forever in the solitude of a deformity. Such thoughts plagued her always as time sped by, heedless of the troubles of others.

It had been a month since the midnight garden scene, and she had not seen him since.

September had given way to October, bringing with it a distant murmur of winter in the breeze. The clouds drifted by with the passing of days, gray and dismal as they arched over the city. She wandered, bowed but not yet broken, through the streets and shops, lost between a life lived and a life quivering with the promise to start anew. Rumors floated about, of a hooded figure glimpsed in the back alleyways and fetid undergrounds of New York, of a mysterious shadow that haunted the corridors of the Bowery Theater long after the curtains closed and the lights were extinguished. The nights grew still, and she waited in silence, without music.

And then one day, he was waiting in her dressing room.

The moment she entered she knew he was there, just by the very displacement of the familiar ambiance. It was so proverbial to her, the sense of him without the sight of him, from all those times when he had been but a voice enchanted from the wake of a dream. She paused, an incredible sense of murky reprieve beginning in the pit of her stomach, and then turned back the way she had come. Erik stepped from the shadows that loomed there, and gently shut the door.

His expression was stolid, unyielding, a feral and gauging luminosity embedded in his eyes that was amplified by the rigidity of the mask. She felt the breath rush from her lungs in a soft gasp, a slight whimper of respite and disbelief escaping with it. He was a hardened figure with a possessive disposition, untamed by his indispensable desire to dominate her will and overpower her sensibility, to take hold and never let go. And then it vanished, as momentary as the gray before dawn, and he was simply Erik again, the facade of his former self compressed in a new expression of concern and timidity.

_Will it always be like this? _she thought to herself, torn as usual between her undecided desires._ Will I always see him, if only for a moment, as the man he use to be?_

"Where have you been?" she asked hoarsely, with barely enough air to speak above a whisper.

"I couldn't come back, not until...," he began, his words jumbled in hast. Then he paused and seemed to rethink his approach, trying to speak clearly. "I've discovered something Christine, something that may or may not be a link to a larger affair. But first I must know: do you realize that you're-"

"Being followed?" Christine interrupted, and she thought she saw the ghost of a smile touch the corners of his lips.

"How long have you known?" he asked, his tone depressed with dark curiosity.

"Since the night...the night of the performance," she replied softly. "I've seen them, hiding behind the curtains during rehearsal, following me down the street, hovering around the gates of the cemetery when I would go and...and wonder where you were. I thought maybe they were the reason why you stayed away so long."

She now realized that from the moment he had descended the stairs after their duet, she had not expected to ever see him again. Her throat constricted, burning with mounting tears, but she held them at bay and asked again, _"Where have you been?"_

"I've been...investigating," he said uncertainly. "I know it must be Legenyll who is having you followed, either on the chance that you may run into me again or for your own safety. Strangely enough, I think it may be a little of both. He has also been trying to find me, but to no avail. I lurk in places that other men dare not go." The last part was spoken with unsettling, macabre pride, and it took some effort for her to repress a shudder.

"But what kept you? Why couldn't you come and see me, at least just once?" The indignant force of her words startled her, for she did not know there existed such a bitter temperament within herself, or that her own feelings for his welfare had grown so substantial. His eyes were indiscernible. "I was so worried..."

"You missed me?" he asked, and the hopeful, tentative nature of that beautiful voice surrendered her raw emotion. The tears came again, and this time they succeeded in brimming over and falling in graceful strokes down the curve of her cheek. He stepped forward, his lips slightly parted by doubt and hesitancy, and wiped away her tears with tender sweeps of his thumbs. He still held her face in his hands as he asked, "Did you really miss me?"

"For six years," she whispered, and they fell into each other's arms.

It was soothing and warm within the sphere of his embrace, a place of sheer contentment where thoughts of melancholy and perpetual sin were finally extinguished. He sighed with an outright release of exhaustion, as though it had taken him the journey of an era to reach this point. She closed her eyes with her head against his chest, taking solace in the rise and fall of his breathing. His heartbeat drummed within her ear, the wonderful sensation of his reality beating away like the simplest, sweetest song. They had never shared a moment as mutual as this, where all reservations perished in the intimacy of such a multifaceted understanding that it transcended query or question. They stayed that way for some time, neither one willing to disturb this strange and long-awaited tranquility.

"Promise me something, Erik."

"Anything." Anything; it was the absolute truth.

"Come and see me as often as you can. At least every other day, if you can manage. Or send me a note. Just don't leave me in silence. I have to know that you're alright. I have to."

"I promise, Christine. I promise." It was calm for a time, restful and poignant in its stillness. If only the passing of days were measured by hours.

"What are we going to do?" Christine asked quietly, her voice slightly muffled as she continued to lean against him.

"About what?" he asked in return, and she smiled softly at the drowsy, unperturbed way in which he spoke.

"Legenyll. I'm afraid he may keep looking for you," she said, and with great reluctance, stepped back from the security of his arms. She looked up avidly into his face, a mild despondency gleaming there that no doubt mirrored her own expression. "You said you had been investigating, that you had discovered something. It involves him, doesn't it?"

"I cannot tell you yet, if only because I'm not quite sure," Erik said, speaking subtly in an attempt to smooth her anxiety. "Some signs tilt in favor of such an assumption, while others point in the opposite direction. Still, if he is connected to what I've found..." He trailed off, his eyes unfocused.

"What did you find?" Christine asked, and some part of her consciousness admonished her for it. It warned that the answer he produced would be unsettling, if not outright alarming, and that her peace of mind would irrevocably be lost. Why she believed this so adamantly she could not say. Erik's attention fell on her once more, as though he sensed her diffidence, his eyes softening as they always did when he looked at her. With a deep breath he opened his mouth to reply, about to confide in her whatever secret he now carried, but before he could speak, someone entered the room.

"Christine, I just wanted to tell you-," Raoul began, but his words faltered lifelessly on the air as he glanced up.

The room reverberated with the silence that followed, the echoes of its stillness traveling tensely like the vibrations from a plucked string. At last, there they stood, the three that had made a triangle of such extreme angles that it had been inevitable that they would one day fracture, and now lay as splintered pieces in the quiet. Erik's face became impassive and steadfast in its resolute firmness, locking away his shock and anxiousness behind a taut expression of resolve. Raoul seemed torn between an intense astonishment and vague doubt, as though his eyes could not accept what his heart held in utter disbelief. Music, light and effervescent, drifted lazily through the open doorway from the stage like a theme in a world apart. The moment could have been contained infinitely, but Christine could not bare the severity of it, and made to reach out to Raoul. Her movement only seemed to waken him from his daze, however, and he instantly became guarded, his eyes suddenly over bright with fury and suspicion. Erik remained as he was, poised for the inescapable.

"I told you not to come near her again," he whispered venomously, closing the door softly and turning the lock on the handle, sealing them in.

"It is not up to you to decide if I should see Christine or not," Erik replied, and his own voice was low enough to be nearly caressing.

"You've caused nothing but fear and pain in the places where you reside, and now you'd seek to consign her to the same fate," Raoul said, and he was drawing ever closer, every footstep a threatening gesture. "After six years of nothing but silence, you come back...for what? What can you possibly hope to achieve here, other than to terrify the only person you have ever professed to love?"

"My fear of him is gone, Raoul," Christine said softly, as though whispering to a frightened horse on the verge of a rampage. "I do not believe he will cause me, cause _us_, any harm. It is no longer in him to do so. He has changed, and for the better."

"His mask hides more than just his face. There are deeper, fouler secrets lying behind it," Raoul returned spitefully, and she heard Erik's breathing become ragged and uneven beside her. Then, with cold and malicious intent, he said quietly, "Desperate men never change. They are eternally bound by their own greed."

"Words of a scared man," Erik said with deliberate accusation. Raoul tensed visibly, and Christine braced herself for the obvious outcome. "Is it truly that you are frightened by my motivation, or that you are frightened of losing?"

Raoul lunged himself forward, grabbing the front of Erik's vest, but Erik had been ready for this since the moment the door had opened. He turned with the force of the assault, using the young man's impulsion to swing him around and slam him against the back wall. Yet before Erik could even think what to do next, Raoul pushed him back far enough to through a punch, which connected painfully along his jaw line. Erik was thrown off balance and fell awkwardly against Christine's vanity table, grabbing the chair to keep himself from falling completely. As Raoul stepped forward and tried to land another blow, Erik pushed himself upright and shielded it with his forearm, at the same time taking the opportunity to jab him in the stomach. When he attempted it a second time, Raoul grabbed his wrist and twisted, causing Erik to let out a snarl of pain and to pull back instinctively. When he shifted, Raoul swung again, and the force of it was jarring enough to send the mask flying from Erik's face.

Erik turned quickly away from them both, not allowing either of them so much as a glimpse of his distortion. He fell to his knees and grasped frantically for the mask, becoming a huddled and pitiful form in the corner of her dressing room. He seemed to have forgotten the quarrel. Christine looked to Raoul with trepidation, the scornful taste of uncertainty rising on her tongue. He stood unnervingly still, his hands resting in a lax posture of defense, staring down with imperceptible emotion at the bent figure upon the floor. However asinine he was being about his judgment, he would not hit Erik when he was down, and for that Christine felt almost faint with relief. She took their momentary pause to step between the two of them, facing Raoul with defiance and something close to hopeful scrutiny.

" This is pointless. It will solve nothing," she said tersely. Behind her, she could feel Erik getting shakily to his feet. "We cannot possibly expect to get anywhere if there is constant suspicion between us all. Fighting will not change the inevitable; Erik is as much a part of my life as you, Raoul."

"A part of your life that almost destroyed us!" he shouted, an awful sheen of hate shrouding his features. "He never let you go, Christine, can't you see that? He tried, and now that he has failed he has come back to reclaim what his twisted mine insists is his. He will never truly give you your freedom, and it is because of this that I _must_ fight. I will not let him drag you back into the hell that he lives in."

"I will never again entrap her the way I once sought to do," Erik replied, his voice drifting hazily over her shoulder, and Christine could tell by the breathy quality in which he spoke that much of the adrenaline had left him. The sudden contingency of losing his mask had deeply upset him. "Her freedom is her own, and it was wrongful of me to ever deny her that. If she wishes me to leave, to never see me again...then I will go. But I will not leave solely on your jealously, on your persistent loathing of me. You can fight me all you want, but if Christine wants me here, you will have to kill me to keep me away."

"How could she tell you to leave, knowing that it would only infuriate you back into madness?" Raoul asked iniquitously, and to Christine's utter dread, he began to walk forward. "As for killing you, that offer seems somewhat appealing."

He kept coming, slowly and with deliberate cynicism. She felt Erik's hands on her shoulders, a drawing tension there as he began to pull her aside so that he could commence with their fight. She resisted, trying vainly to stay between them, to stop this chaotic mess before it escalated any further. Almost in accord with her desperate attempts, an outbreak of hollering erupted in the corridor. It was obvious that they were yelling about the source of the commotion, for their brawl could not have gone unnoticed. A single voice rose from the chorus of noise and chatter, chilling in its precise direction. The trio stood rooted to the spot, caught motionless in the scene of their quarrel. Much of the sound dissipated, and then the voice called again from the depths of the silent intermission.

"It came from down that way! It came from Christine's room!"

* * *

Erik did not hesitate, but rushed to the oaken cabinet near the back of the room. He placed his hands in a groove that ran on its far side, a neglected crevice that was easily hidden in the shadows thrown from its corner, and tugged outward. It didn't move. He strained even harder against its resiliency, beseeching it to shift, but it remained immovable. He had entered by this same passage less than an hour ago, and it had swung forward on silent hinges with ostensible ease. He turned to Christine, an expression of incredulous despair overpowering his wit to reason.

"I can't open it," he told her impassively, his tone matching his reaction. "It won't budge. I don't understand it-"

Muffled shouts fell relentlessly at the door, seeping through the cracks in the frame and contracting their dread into a tight coil. The footsteps were obstinate and eager. Christine glanced around hopelessly, her breathing rapid and diminutive, and then her eyes met Raoul's, his own seeming to hold a conceding tenacity for what he knew she would ask. "Raoul, can you not help him?"

"To let him roam as he would, to never know when he might appear, at whatever time he deems to be suitable." His voice was bare and emotionless, as though he had simply been given to fate and had found some terrible absolution in its decree. He could no longer deny it, for the truth was plainly there in the room with him, standing near the dresser and looking for an exit; staring out at him through Christine's eyes.

Without another word, Raoul went to Erik's side and laid his own hands within the groove, gripping the wood until it groaned under the pressure of his fingers. Erik looked at him, and when the young man glanced back, they both nodded and pulled forward in the same instant with an almighty wrench. The cabinet came forward slightly with a hollow, fragmenting noise, exposing a small gap through which the first bounds of a hallway could be discerned. They pulled forward again, and this time the sharp and irritant sound of splintering wood rent the air, the entire dresser swinging free on balanced hinges and revealing the dark passageway that lay behind. Evading preamble, Erik stepped into the corridor and, to his utter confusion and repugnance, so did Raoul. He and Christine shared a brief glance of perplexity, but Raoul seemed adamant by his demeanor and there was no time to ask or ponder over his intention. Erik leaned forward and dragged the cabinet to him as Christine pushed from the other side, and the light was diminished as both he and Raoul were submerged in blackness.

Not even a second later, the door to her dressing room opened.

"Christine, is everything alright? We heard a terrible raucous coming from here," a voice insisted, and Erik recognized it immediately as Legenyll's. He sounded muted through the thick oak paneling. "Your room is in shambles! Whatever happened in here?"

"I...I lost my ring," Christine stammered, and even from this side of the door, the excuse seemed lame and hastened. "I've been tearing the place apart looking for it."

"So where have you been for the past month?" Raoul asked almost casually from his right, and Erik started in surprise. He had almost forgotten that he wasn't alone.

"I've been checking into things," Erik replied in the same tone, keeping his voice to a barely audible volume. "And how did you know I've been gone for a month?"

"Christine," Raoul said bluntly, and Erik understood. She had not told him, but rather her contemplative sadness had given it away. "Now tell me this; does it have anything to do with Legenyll?"

"It does," he answered, somewhat unsettled by his curtness and his accuracy. Legenyll and Christine were still talking in the dressing room, independent in their separate world as he and Raoul were in this shadowed void. "Is that why you followed me in here? To discuss my actions for the past few weeks?"

"What did you find out?" Raoul asked, ignoring Erik's inquiries. When he remained silent, the young man let out a fatigued sigh that was little more than a whisper. When he began to talk, his voice was urgent and barely suppressed in its desperation. "Listen to me, you son of a bitch, I have to know. I love her, Erik. Can you possibly understand that the way I do? I _love_ her, enough to...to let her go, when the time finally comes. Oh yes, I know it's coming. I've known for months, but whether or not Christine loves me is of no consequence anymore. I can't turn away without knowing she'll be safe, and with you and Legenyll hovering about I cannot be certain at all. Legenyll has become increasingly obsessed with her since the moment we arrived, and he want of her has nothing to do with love, but with a maddening greed for power and ascendancy. Like someone else I knew once, Erik. Do you understand now? If Christine wishes no more of me, I will not force my love upon her in a selfish attempt to keep her with me. But what of you? Will you do it again? There is too much deceit, too much pretense and treachery in what I know of you, and doubtless much more in what I don't. Yet I cannot deny that you are her angel, however dark and sinister in your fortune. No more secrets, no more long silences. So tell me here and now, while you can; if and when the time comes, will you let her go? _Can you?_"

At last, Erik had found the source of distress and foreboding that encircled the three of them. It was here, livid and inconsolable and fraught with diseased and fervent desire. It was no wonder why Raoul had lashed out at him with such a vicious mania. It was not for simple hatred or a frantic impulse of losing Christine through a clashing rivalry for her love, as Erik had initially believed, but from loss by force. To lose her in the same way as he nearly had the night Erik had dropped the chandelier. And what in his actions would suggest otherwise? Did he not still tend to the shadows, where his nature could so easily become as deformed as what lay beneath the mask? He wished he could see Raoul's face at that moment, and he his, that he could impress upon him with a determined expression the extent of his intention. The darkness was a complex network of wraithlike shades, and despite his need, it could not be breached. Instead he would have to use all the impact his words could provide, letting them form in the disembodied voice of the phantom.

"I did let her go, Raoul. If so, I can do it again." From the void to his right, there came a quivering sigh. He wondered if Raoul were possibly on the verge of tears from such tension and relief at his sentiment. They lingered there without sound for a minute or so, listening as Christine and Legenyll discussed the audition schedule for _Le Chambre Rouge_. Erik knew he had one last thing to say, and was bent upon saying it before Christine opened the door and let in the light. He shifted slightly and whispered," There are eight compartments beneath the Bowery that were supposedly sealed off after the renovation a few years back. Yet there are two secret passageways that still have access to them, and the entrance to one of them is in the assistant manager's office. Do you know who the assistant manager is?"

"No," Raoul replied, his tone constricted and anticipating.

"Mr.Waymend," Erik said, and he heard Raoul curse under his breath. "In those eight compartments there are several hundred stores of liquor, cigars, and even various types of rifles, no doubt all of them stolen or gained by illegal methods. Which means-"

"Which means that the night we ran into Mr.Waymend, the case of brandy he was carrying may have been stolen," Raoul finished. He sounded blustery and almost disbelieving, as though such facts could surely not be linked to something as close at hand as the man in the next room. "And you think Legenyll is working with him?"

"I do not know, because I have not heard anything to suggest it, but still...," Erik paused, letting the sound of Legenyll's voice drift in through the woodwork. "It would explain the man's aggressive reaction to the smashed cases of whiskey. Anyone would have cause to be angry had such an incident happened in their theater, but Legenyll seems to have taken it to heart, like a deep wound. He has Christine being followed at every turn...you know of that?" A grunt to his right. He had expected as much. "He has several men out looking for me, though who these men are or where they come from, I still do not know. But think-what would drive a man to such measures if he has nothing to hide?"

"Fear," Raoul said, and that one word was all the truth either of them needed. "He's afraid you've found him out. That you know about his illegal dealings."

"Exactly," Erik whispered, and another silence ensued. In the dressing room, Christine and Legenyll were exchanging pleasantries as they made to say goodbye. Erik leaned his head against the rough wood of the cabinet and closed his eyes, listening to the vibrations of her voice. It was soothing and suffocating all in the same instance, causing him both pain and pleasure with its youthful elegance. Every time he left her, something inside of him went dormant, like the last rays at sunset, and it did not reappear until her face brought the morning with it. He sighed deeply.

"Have you told Christine yet?" Raoul asked, referring to Mr.Waymend and Legenyll.

"No, not yet. I was about to, but then you so colorfully interrupted," he said, but he held no anger or resentment in his words. "So now I leave that to you."

"You're leaving?" Erik smiled grimly at the satisfaction and relief that emanated from the young man.

"Yes, at least for now," Erik replied, and then, with soft bitterness," Tell Christine I will come again tomorrow."

He felt Raoul tense up next to him in the dark, a reflex that he would surely carry for some time whenever he was forced to interact with him. He turned and prepared to follow the corridor to the exit that he knew lay at the other end. He would find his way easily in the dark, being more accustomed to it than even pursuing by torchlight. He heard a rustle of movement in the gloom, and then Raoul's hand was on his shoulder. It was not a gesture of acceptance or appeasement, or even a threatening motion made to intimidate; it was simply there, as if to stabilize the futility and vainness of their situation. Erik did not know whether to feel secured or adrift by his actions, but understood that Raoul was in a state of melancholy, and that he was now aimless in a sea of solitude that was terribly similar to an ocean that he had once tried to master. And had floundered in.

"I will. I'll tell her."

The hand slipped away, and Erik began walking down the long cavity that connected to other hidden passageways within the Bowery. He traveled within its labyrinth of familiar stale air and fading memories, taking comfort in the quietness of its impending secrets, stowed away from the eyes of those who could never understand its detached and wintry comfort. When the cabinet was pulled aside a few moments later, his figure had already receded into the blackness.

* * *

A/N: Well, there it is. Hope you had fun... 


	6. The Shadow's Den

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. I'm too tired to tell you what I do own.

A/N: I'm back! Life has been hectic, and I haven't been able to work on this as much as I'd like. That, plus finishing my oneshot, (which was driving me crazy to get done). I find that I keep hinting more and more at Leroux, but it just fits so well, and I implemented it quite a bit in this chapter. Thanks for the lovely reviews, I can never get enough of them, and to my beta as always. Please, please review; I need them. They're my drugs! Sorry for any mistakes that may have been overlooked...

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Chapter 6: The Shadow's Den

The light was but a few feet away, the prodigy of the sun as it shone brilliantly upon the cobblestones of the sidewalk. It looked warm and inviting, imploring to him that he could take succor in its golden spill. The open market spread across the avenues of downtown New York just up the path, bustling with people and bright colors and music from the corner quartet. It was quite a spectacle to watch from his position at the end of the alley, embedded in its private concealment as he was. He could tell it was going to be a lazy day, and he was content at the thought of spending the next few hours lounging in the backwater of society, observing their actions as one would a band of actors on a fine stage. The smell of the sea hung all about, for the port was only a few streets away. On a day like this, the tide would sparkle as though millions of diamonds were encrusted in its surf.

_How could she tell you to leave, knowing that it would only infuriate you back into madness? _

The ghost voice rose unbidden to his inner ear, disturbing the slight serenity that he had obtained. It wormed its way into his conscience, were it began to devour his peace of mind and the mounting happiness he had known since first hearing that sanctified voice at the Bowery Theater.

Was it true? Was Christine's tender behavior toward him a front to keep him placated? He had spent every possible moment at her side for the past few weeks, talking with her and flourishing in the sound of her voice. He kept to the remoteness of the shade behind the curtains, listening and watching from there as she glided effortlessly through rehearsals. He left her notes, even when they were unneeded, which in themselves were full length letters describing his travels of the preceding six years.

And on those nights when she slept fitfully in the loneliness of her dressing room, he would sit in the hidden passageway behind her cabinet and sing sweet, soft lullabies of his own invention until her slumber eased into more peaceable dreams.

But was that enough? Could any action or word ever truly be enough? A score of twisted deeds and irreparable mistakes had isolated him even from himself, and the humanity that had still existed below the damnation of the mask, fighting desperately to reach the surface as he reeked horrors within the Opera Populaire. He could see himself standing on the grand steps in the foyer, dressed as Red Death, the tension redoubling with every step as he descended among the party goers, all the while singing of his dark intent for them. How he had taunted her! Appealing to her innocent nature with accusations, feeding the guilt that resided in her young mind until her expression had revealed her inner distress. Even if there still lingered a chance between them, did he deserve her?

Before he dared to answer such a terrifying question, Christine appeared at the end of the alleyway.

_She was made for the light_, he thought musingly, gazing awestruck as she glowed like a beacon in the sun. _She was made for the light as surely as I was made for the shadow._

She wore a dress of pale lavender, made of some material that seemed to float on the breeze as though on a bed of air. A light cloak of a deeper shade was draped across her shoulders, and her hair was pulled back by a thick, bright ribbon. She was a picture that never ceased to captivate him, and he could trace every of line her by memory, but it always amazed him that whenever he saw her, she outshined all previous images. And that every time he saw her, he loved her even more.

"I thought that was you," she said, and a smile spread across her face. "I saw a form here at the end of the alley from up at the market. It could've just been a heap of blankets or some other object but...I thought it was you. In one way or another, I can always sense when you're around."

"I seem to have that effect on people," he said frankly, and her smiled broadened with amusement. "You're quite a distance from Bowery Street."

"I felt like taking a long walk, seeing as I had no rehearsal today. I haven't actually seen that much of New York. I spend most of my time at the theater."

"Like any true devotee of the stage," he teased, and she glowed with pleasure, as though he had praised her. A frivolous sensation arose in his stomach at her joy.

He found his footing awkwardly, timidity and coyness beginning to dominate as they always did when she drew near. Culpability was still floating in his mind, reminiscent about whether or not he should even be here, trying to invade on whatever new life Christine had forged for herself in liberation of their trials in Paris. Six years abroad had taught him that six years was not enough to gain redemption, and that he was still damned. And that he had almost damned her as well. She stepped into the alleyway, apparently aware that something was troubling him, but he smiled gently and shook his head, assuring her that he was alright.

The shade of the alley fell over her, dimming the aura of light that had seemed to shine outward from her, as though she were the origin of it. He could see in her the same six years that dwelled in him, and that as he had been humbled by them, so had she been transformed. The virtue and purity of her character had grown, blooming from the wilted garden of her awakening at sixteen, when he had sought her to be his, to the budded petals of the young woman standing before him. A strange longing to reach out and stroke her cheek, to feel the warmth of her skin and her reality engulfed him, and he began to lean forward. Yet just as he started to raise his arm, her face became a mask of distress.

"Oh no," she whispered, and glanced over her shoulder in a nervous, panicky movement. She turned back to him with an apologetic look, biting her lower lip in apprehension. "Someone may be following me. I wasn't thinking when I came down here. I didn't see anyone early, but still...if they find you..."

He walked past her quickly and took a glimpse around the corner of the building beside which they stood. Sure enough, at the end of the path there stood a man, one Erik had seen lurking around the Bowery at times, trying to appear casual in manner but obviously on the lookout for something. Or someone. As Erik watched, the man turned from looking around the corner market and glanced down the street, exactly in his direction. They made eye contact.

Erik ducked back into the alley, but he knew it was too late. By the expression on her face, Christine seemed to realize this as well.

"Come with me," he said suddenly, speaking the second his mind landed on an idea. "I know a place where we can stay for awhile."

"Where?" she asked, glancing anxiously towards the end of the alley.

"You'll see," he replied, and took her hand in his. It was small and slight, but it slipped trustfully into his own without hesitancy.

He began leading her through the back avenues of the city, haste quickening every step as they attempted to distance themselves from Christine's follower. There were several abandoned buildings in this section of New York, dilapidated warehouses and depots that had grown weathered from disuse and neglect, which had become a newly introverted universe where Erik now reigned. He slipped in through boards that appeared immobile at first glance, traveling in the forgotten realms of deserted constructions that kept them veiled from the public eye as perfectly as any secret passageway. Alleyways became corridors, doorways became open chasms beneath mammoth paintings, and they moved through the personified castle like mere phantoms in the walls.

Despite his guilt at the drudged up memories and uncertain aspects he had been considering when Christine had come upon him, he felt somewhat exhilarated at their trek through this maze that he had unearthed from society's negligence. It was as though he were leading her once more into the warren of his excistense, guiding her through the sovereignty of his solitude where he lived and breathed, sharing with her that first strange and beloved duet. It was another journey into his world,except that this time, no sedious truths lay in his lair, waiting to be divulged with fear and pity. For it was to his lair that he led her now.

In the last building by the span of the bay, he brought Christine to the top floor. His home, a place that he called 'The Den'.

* * *

It was as lavish and sumptuous as a gypsy's hideaway, covered in gothic tapestries with thick, plush pillows lain all about the floor, colored in the deep shades of indigo and burgundy that might grace a Persian palace. A massive four-poster bed sat upon a pulpit near the back of the room, wrapped delicately in elegant silk sheets. Antique mahagony chests were lined against the walls, no doubt full of foreign treasures and thousands of evocative melodies from the chambers of his genius. Against another wall stood a colossal grand piano, the lid propped upright to reveal the strings and their tiny hammers nestled inside. Though many of the panes had been shattered, highbacked windows stretched the length of the room on one side, facing the harbor and capturing an aesthetic view of the infinite ocean that lay beyond. And more prominent than any other feature of that surreal environment were the cases, containing within each an instrument capable of making whatever heavenly music that Erik so desired to create from it.

In the brightest beam of sunlight an open violin case was propped on the seat of a fine upholstered chair, the interior lined with silver velvet. Lying in this, already tuned and prepared with a shoulder rest, was a beautiful violin of an innate cherrywood, the varnish gleaming like a dull sapphire. An ornate, golden music stand was nearby, constructed like some fantastic candelabra and donned with yellowed sheets of music.

"It's like a dream," Christine uttered softly, and the awe in her voice made Erik smile faintly.

"I was hoping you'd like it," he replied, and made to shut the case.

"Wait," Christine said, perhaps more earnestly than necessary, and Erik turned to her with an expression of curiosity. "Will you play for me?"

For a moment his expression remained static, as though comprehension had deserted him in the wake of her question. Then, with more charm and poise than any gentleman of the age, he smiled for the first time in her living memory. Not a small or timid or reclusive smile, as she had always known, but a true smile that was genuine and overwhelming bright, and Christine was crushed with inherent sorrow at its loveliness. Here was such endearing magnificence, augmented by the sincerity and musical intellect of his charcter, and the world would never see it.

"What would you like me to play?" he asked. His tone revealed how innately touched he was by her request.

"Something light and cheerful," she replied, smiling at him because it was impossible not to. "Something that matches the feel of the day."

His smile softened and he nodded, clearly with a piece in mind. It seemed so natural as he raised the instrument and placed it on his shoulder, as though the contours were made to blend into his figure. He lifted the bow with artless grace, not a sound escaping the strings as he settled himself into the correct posture, and with the first downstroke brought the violin to majesty. He was a flurry of motion, moving in such a way as to imitate the timbre of the music. The left hand slid up and down the fingerboard effortlessly, shifting to higher pitches while the other gestured grandly with the bow. Short, staccato notes and flowing legato sweeps, sometimes brushing across all four strings at once. With a rythmic shaking of the hand he vibrated each held note, hightening its pulse with flawless intonation.

Christine could envision a long stretch of beach in the south of France, the sea melting away into the blue haze of the horizon. She was playing with a childhood friend, who would later become her husband, dancing around in the sand as her father played jaunty tunes for passerby. A slight burning arose in her throat, for the memory was bittersweet in its place and time. Yet with Erik playing so regally in this enchanting castle in the canopy of New York, it was a fleeting sensation, swallowed up in her elation. As the last note faded away, she applauded with estatic zeal. Erik smiled lightly, shy and modest again.

"Lovely, Erik. Absolutely lovely," she praised, and a deep blush appeared in his cheeks. "What is it called?"

"Eine Kliene Nachtmusik," he replied, and at the baffled look on her face, added, "It's German for 'A Little Night Music.' "

"Bach?"

"Mozart."

"Ahhh."

He began to loosen the hairs of the bow with the air of long practice. Christine watched this mundane activity with a hint of fascination, following every change in his stance. His movements were fluid and supple, as free and unrestricted as the flow of a wild stream. She remembered how eerie and ghostlike those movements had seemed the first time he had appeared to her, when her naive mind had still hovered in thoughts of angels and celestial magic. Now the motion of his body was more human, with flaws in its pattern but ultimately still mesmerizing to the eye. It was a calming sensation to see him this way, as a man of many talents, as opposed to an angel or a demon or a phantom. She realized she was seeing Erik, just Erik, here in the sunlight without the pretense of shadow to obscure his character.

As he bent over to slide the bow into its case, a thin rope chain slipped from inside the folds of his shirt, a familair object dangling on the end.

He glanced up at her with a startled expression, grabbing the chain and placing it roughly back in its place below the fabric of his shirt, but she had already seen. The space between them suddenly became an awkward chasm of silence, but by Erik's will alone. She had not been surprised at all, (for some part of her had always known, or at least suspected deeply), but he appeared honestly unsettled at his revealed little secret. He walked over and sat down at the piano, his back to her as though he were ashamed of what she had seen. The misunderstanding of it all made her feel like crying again.

She came up beside him and laid a delicate hand on his shoulder, wanting to comfort him and erase his misguided embarrassment, but he kept his eyes cast downward, averting them from meeting hers. His own hand hovered just above the keys, and he concentrated on this with rapt attention.

"Christine," he said softly, and with that one word, her name, she new that something else lay beneath his disquiet. "Do I frighten you?"

The question caught her off guard, for she did not understand where it came from. "No, Erik, I'm not frightened of you. Why would you think such a thing?"

"Are you sure?" he asked in return, ignoring her inquiry. "Truly, are you not afraid of me? You can tell me the truth. I won't get angry, or feel rejected. I simply want to know how you feel. Whether or not my presence is...actually wanted. Or needed. I just don't want to...be a shadow anymore, at least not in spirit. Or to you."

"Erik, I don't know what it is you need to hear," she replied, her anxiety rising at the bleakness with which he spoke.

"Just tell me the truth," he repeated.

Did he really still believe that he was a ghost? a phantom? That she was only drawn to him by fear, or the promise of being saved by supplication? She stared at his blank profile, his eyes still hypnotized by the hand that floated motionless over the keys. He had come so far, over the coercion of the masses that would bring the tyranny of hate and intolerance, of aspiring above his own warped excistense in which murder and ascendancy had become distorted virtues. Yet he had lived so long in his own shadow as the Opera Ghost that the idea of residing _in_ the world, of living for a purpose less sullied than greed, was almost abstract.

He was not evil at heart, and she wanted to show him that. Without a word she bent down and kissed the warm flesh of his left cheek, enjoying the rough texture of fine stubble against her lips. She felt him tense at first, purely out of reaction from such an intimate touch, and then heard his breath catch in his throat. When she pulled away, his eyes immediately went to her face, studying it with avid bewilderment and a dull species of hope that almost wounded her. She squeezed his shoulder gently, to reassure him, staring into those divine yellow eyes, such perfect mirrors for the labyrinth of his heavenly talents.

"I want you here. I need you here," she told him, and was grateful that her voice remained steady. "I...I've loved these past few weeks, talking with you, learning about you. I've finally seen who you are beneath the music, something we never shared...last time. Then, it was always dark melodies and darker truths, nothing so simple or splendid as a conversation about interest or experience. I wish you'd stop regretting, stop doubting. I'm here because I want to be. I'm here for you."

His face became so animated compared to the indifference of the mask, the lines creasing as they filled with emotion. His mouth worked, but no sound escaped so that, without utterance, he closed his eyes and turned his head away from her, swallowing thickly in an attempt to stiffle his tears. His hand reached across to his shoulder and grasped hers, latching on tightly as though he were afraid that she would dissipate into nothingness, as though she had only ever been a vision of his lonely desperation. She cupped that hand between both of her own as tears welled in the pools of her eyes, creating a fog around his figure as though she were looking through a spyglass at a dream still being dreamed.

"Will you sing for me?" he asked, and he actually braved his tentativeness and looked up at her, letting his tears fall freely in her sight.

"I always have," she replied, and stepped up next to the piano, straightening her posture and drying her eyes on her sleeve.

Erik russled about until he found a melody in the sheaf of papers lying on the music stand, regaining some self control as he preoccupied himself in his search. After a moments brief study they began the tune, which was contemplative and wistful, pensive to the ear and the thoughts it stirred inside one's mind. Christine's voice was as fair and precisely balanced as always, and Erik's hands glided over the keys with faultless dexterity, never missing a beat. Yet both sounds were somehow detatched, the sincerity of the song absent, the rhythms pulsing with empty cadence. Their minds lingered away from the music, on the poignant image of the engagement ring that hung at the end of the rope chain around Erik's neck. The same engagement ring that had, in its time and history, symbolized the bonds of young love, the chains of desire's unsighted insanity, and the tragic parting of ways that had severed them physically, if not in memory.

The same ring that lay at the end of a chain where, when placed just within the folds of his shirt, would lie directly over his heart.

* * *

When she stepped into her dressing room, Raoul was sitting in a chair near the door, waiting for her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, giving him a puzzled glance as she removed her cloak. "I don't have a performance tonight. I just stopped by-"

"I found your note at the apartment, saying that you had gone for a walk," he replied, cutting her off with unusual curtness. "When you didn't return after a time, I came looking for you here."

"How long ago was that?" she inquired. A sinking sensation had begun in the pit of her stomach, and it was growing in its intensity.

"Two, maybe three hours ago."

"All that time you've been sitting here, waiting for me?! Why didn't you just return home?"

"Because I thought you might come here. With him."

She did not have to ask who he was refering to. Raoul had spoken to her of the discussion that had taken place in the secret corridor behind her cabinet, and of the disturbing enlightenment Erik had revealed about that which lay concealed beneath the theater. And who might be in connection with it. But more so than that, he had told her that Erik would come to her, and by doing so, he had succumbed to the inevitability of the shadow disclosed.

He had resigned himself to Erik's presence, growing reclusive and moody whenever she would come home from spending time with him, for it was always apparent when she had done so. She would smile about minor matters of no importance, speak fondly of days she recalled that had been filled with music, and hum enthralling songs that could have been composed by only one individual. He attended her concerts more often than before, rarely giving her the chance to change out of costume before he wisked her home. She had discovered him by the soft glow of a lantern at late periods during the night, reading over the letters Erik had left for her in her dressing room.There would be times that he merely sat beside her, an unfathomable silence drifting up from his seeming depression, a vague expression of nostalgia and and sadness implicating his features.

Yet she never spoke of him, and Raoul never asked. Never even mentioned him, until now.

She began to reply, not knowing if a protest or an apology or little of both would come forward in her words. Before she could make a sound, Raoul was there, taking her into his embrace and pressing his mouth to hers in a passionate kiss. It was slow and ardent, a lovers' kiss, melting with fever as they yielded to one another with pliant lips. When he pulled back slightly, his breath feathering her face as he drew back from the kiss, she looked up into his eyes with woeful concern, trying to find an explanation in the blue that stared back at her. She saw there a decision, one she had known would come from the moment Erik had first appeared in the corridor in front of the stage. And listened to her sing.

"Raoul," she breathed, her voice a whispered lament of what lay between them.

"I love you," he whispered back, resting a hand against her cheek. There was such devotion in his eyes. And so much despair. "But I have to know."

Picnics in the attic. Dark stories of the North, told in candlelight. Soft violin music and sharing sweets, sharing kisses, sharing each other.

"Christine, do you still love me?"

* * *

A/N: How will she answer this all-encompassing question? Find out next time...(exits to dramatic music). 


	7. Cacophony

Disclaimer: Well, what do you know? I don't own the Phantom of the Opera. Shocking, but true...

A/N: I know it's been some time since my last update, and I'm sorry about that. This chapter is the longest one I've written so far, and it has been the hardest for me to write. That, and personal stuff which I will not bother you with. On another note, thanks stupendously to my reviewers. I got alot of constructive criticism, which I adore; it makes me feel that readers are really enjoying my work enough to want to help out. This chapter is..._oddly_ written, (the second half incorporating Raoul's POV for the first and last time), and I'm not sure how it will be received. I hope you like, but even if you don't, tell me about it! Please?

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Chapter 7: Cacophony

The stars had always seemed like billions of illuminated rifts across the universe to him, as though some greater world existed beyond the exterior of the night sky, and that the radiance of its own sun had slipped into the space above the Earth. If he could reach a star, perhaps he would be able to look through this rift into this other world, and thereby find that he was only a grain of sand within a grain of sand. Thoughts of such scale might frighten the feeble minded, or those who lived comfortably in the assurance of their stable lifestyles, but not him. In _this_ world, where it seemed that in every breast there lurked a heart that beat against him, the idea of being insignificant was a saddening consolation.

He didn't want to be noticed, nor did he think he was supposed to. It was for those like Christine that the stage had been invented, to portray life through the best that it had to offer, for all eyes to fall upon as that one rose which blooms amidst the brush of the ordinary.

It was to her that he was going this night, to talk or sing or simply live in her presence, and he was almost there when someone stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of him. He stood just below the wan glow of a streetlamp, its sickly rays casting his face into sharp relief. It was a face that Erik found vaguely familiar, though from where he could not place. The man had a haggard, sallow look to him that was commonly associated with those who dabbled in the many taverns that ran throughout the city. They were in fact near a bar at that moment, (a very rowdy and lurid bar), so the man's presence was not completely unsystematic, but his stance suggested that he was ready for a confrontation, and the fact that he had waited until Erik came into view to step from the shadows did not detract from this theory. He now wished that he had pulled up his hood, so that he might have covered the mask.

"Well, hello there mister," the man saluted, giving a nod at him. "Where you headed this evening?"

"I don't believe that's any of your business," Erik replied, trying to keep his voice casual, but still imposing.

"Just curious," the man said, and took a step closer. A foul stench proceeded him. "It's a bit late to be taking a stroll, wouldn't you say?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"Ah, a night walker, eh?"

"Yes."

"It ain't safe on the streets after dark no more, you know. You're taking quite a risk."

Erik was standing beyond the ring of light cast by the lamp, and had not revealed himself to be scrutinized. Now, as the man was able to discern more of his features, his face crumpled up in surprise and confusion. He seemed utterly perplexed.

"Why, you're not-," he began, obviously thinking aloud. At the last second he cut himself off, realizing he had almost let something slip.

"I'm not what?" Erik asked, for the man's dejection seemed to be a clue as to his motivation. Then another question, (and possibly a more accurate question), occurred to him, and he asked, "Or maybe it's 'I'm not _who_?' "

"Never you mind," the man growled, apparently irked that his front had been disbanded. He gave Erik a sharp, inquisitive glance. "What's that rag on your face for?"

"As I have said, it's none of your business."

"Well, I've seen fit to make it my business. You know, you're a might unfriendly. I was just trying to get a conversation going, be polite and all."

"Very decent of you," Erik said, though he kept most of the sarcasm restrained in his tone. "I don't mean to appear rude, but I'm late for an engagement and I really must be going."

"Oh, I don't think so," the man repeated, dark humor in every syllable, and gave a jagged smile full of crooked, rotting teeth.

A rustling found him on the wind, and Erik followed it, his eyes piercing the shrouds that hovered in unison with the night. They began to move, silhouettes of shadow that became more defined as they parted from their dwellings. Just like the man before him, they had been waiting. And now that he was here, they began to emerge. More of this man's like, unfurling from hideaways across the street and from the alleyways ahead of him. He heard footfalls, slow and deliberate, fall in behind him. A cloud of foreboding descended on the scene, a force which Erik felt keenly in his mind and recognized as anguish in his soul. Was he the sort of man that someone like Christine should have by her side? A man that inspired violence by his mere presence?

If only that he were a real ghost, to make use of celestial form and take advantage of transparency, of nothingness. If only he could float on the air, that he might reach a star. Then he could leave the devil's playground to these whores of misery and find refuge in the emptiness of space, the closet thing to a better world that he would ever know. The idea only inspired a blinding fury with its false allure, for he would always be hunted. Always.

As they began to close in around him, he abandoned his thoughts and braced himself.

* * *

The night air was cool and flaccid, and Raoul was grateful for that.

He had come to Christine's dressing room much earlier in the day, excusing himself from work, just for the purpose of this walk. Her arm encircled his, the warmth of her skin radiating through his coat and pervading a sense of dread throughout his mind. She was so close now, yet in her words and demeanor and the light of the stage she was farther from him than in all the years that had passed before he had seen her at the Populaire. And as time had been his redeemer then, so was it now his rival, for in the lengthening spaces of love had an awakening occurred. It had all been expressed in a simple utterance, sprung from a simple question, and now he walked with Christine in a calm aftermath, making his way towards the rest of his life.

So many of the appropriate questions surfaced in his mind, at such times like these, as they made their way down Bowery Street. How? Why? When? Of course, there were no answers, and had there been, he wouldn't have known them anyway. It was simplicity of motion that kept him upright, an abject cure for a cureless ailment. He kept thinking, wishing he didn't have to think, and knowing deep down that he wasn't really thinking at all. He was only skimming ceaseless ideas of incessant measures.

All these thoughts were very confusing, churning up inside him and trying to piece themselves together like a puzzle full of missing pieces. Yet he would not let his mind, (at least for now), wander back to the place where these thoughts originated from. Instead he looked down at Christine, who ceased all turbulence at once. He saw an expression of confusion on her face, and followed her line of vision to what lay ahead.

A group of people, seemingly patrons of the nearby saloon, where gathered around the lamp post in front of them. It was evident that a fight was transpiring in the center of this crowd, for a great commotion of scuffling and dull yells was emanating at the focal point. For no reason at all, Raoul knew that their presence was in correlation with something else that was happening, something on a grander scale. He suddenly wanted to see the conflict that was taking place, here and now, with something close to a sharp urgency. It seemed overwhelmingly important at that moment, and so he began maneuvering his way through the barrier of people. Christine followed, apparently compelled as much as he was himself, and when at last they broke free to the other side, she gasped at the same time that Raoul recognized the cause.

Erik was standing between four men, brawling in such a fierce, savage manner that Raoul felt a chill pass through him. He had seen that look before in those coldly piercing eyes, and he was grateful that this time they were not directed at himself. One man lay unconscious to the side, forgotten in the fray, and another was staggering in a dangerously lopsided fashion. As Raoul watched, Erik took a swing at the man to his left, who fell backward awkwardly as a tooth came flying out of his mouth. The man on his right was holding a knife, which was dripping blood from the tip, and his eyes began to discern the numerous lacerations across Erik's arms and chest; the abrasions across his face, the busted lower lip, the blood stains on his shirt. Something else was missing, something so vital that's its absence was creating a paradox, and with a shock Raoul realized what it was.

The mask was lying on the ground.

His left was to them, so the appearance of his distortion had not become evident to them or anyone to this side of the crowd. But those opposite from Raoul were staring with horrible fascination, and he knew with absolute certainty that his disfigurement was the sole reason they had not come to his aid. The thought compelled him into action, and he was suddenly engaged in the struggle, clashing his fist into the nearest figure as it came toward him. Erik was doing the same to his left, but his pace was beginning to slow, the fatigue catching hold and waning his strength. It only continued for a few more seconds, as it seemed the men had noticed the new comer and had decided against further involvement. They slumped away, disappearing like ethereal forms into the masses, leaving their fallen comrade behind. At the last second, one of them chanced a glance back, and Raoul was certain that he had seen that face before.

Erik suddenly fell against the wall, leaning against the lamp post as he collapsed to the ground. Raoul immediately crouched down to help him up, still to his left, but Erik was holding out his hand as if in expectation of something, and for a moment the young man was puzzled at this gesture. Then he realized what was needed, for even in the direst of circumstances it would always loom up without hesitation and as the dominant factor above all else in his berated mind. Raoul sighed, his understanding offering no comfort whatsoever, and picked the mask off the ground and handed it to Erik, who instantly placed it in its scared spot.

"Oh, Erik...," Christine breathed to his right, and he jumped. He had not noticed her presence. She reached out toward the man bent exhaustedly against the wall, but Erik took her hand in his and tried to smile despite his pain. It was only then that Raoul began to realize the severity of his wounds.

"It's all right," he said, but his voice broke and he hissed in pain as his split lip began to ooze blood.

"We have to get him to a doctor," Raoul whispered. He was looking at Erik's abdomen, which was partially covered in blood from a deep gash in the man's side. There also seemed to be a stab wound in his leg, already congealed and nearly crusted over, along with several other cuts and bruises. "These wounds are serious. He needs medical attention"

"No," Erik responded at once, shaking his head adamantly as blood continued to dribble down his face from scratches along his cheek. "No doctors. No place public. They'll turn me away at the door, in any case."

"But you're -," Raoul began, but Erik cut him off immediately, his eyes flashing with an almost villainous gleam.

"I said no," he barked, and as Christine began to speak, added, "This is not up for discussion." He closed his eyes and said no more.

"I think we need to leave now," Raoul whispered in her ear, and he saw that she understood his haste in the matter.

The crowd had fallen eerily silent, their eyes burning into the trio with a wicked curiosity and a sickening distaste. He knew that they should not linger, for ill thoughts usually led to ill actions, and the minds of this particular group were all bent on the mask. He reached down to the huddled form and took his arm. There was no resistance in Erik, no outburst of wounded pride or willful opposition in his posture, and this permissive attitude unnerved the young man. He slipped the arm around his shoulders, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Christine do the same. The throng of onlookers seemed to pass a collective murmur at their motion, and a gap appeared in the circle about them like a dark bridge over darker waters, leading away from the people and the glare of the spotlight into denser realms of shadow.

Together they lifted him and carried his lax figure through the parting in the crowd.

"Where should we take him?" Christine asked, and her voice was strained with nervousness and concern.

"Go...go to the alleyway alongside the theater," Erik whispered quietly, his breathing ragged and shallow. "There's a...a secret entry that leads to-"

"Leads to what?" Raoul pressed, but Erik did not reply.

They did as he instructed and entered the alleyway adjacent to the Bowery, making their way cautiously without the benefit of a light. Distorted shapes loomed up from the darkness like predatory figures, threatening only because of their presence at that particular time and place. A large dumpster rested against the outer wall, its massive bulk seemingly immovable. Raoul leaned forward and passed a glance at Christine across the man suspended between them, and saw that her bewilderment was just as prominent as his own. Without options, he had no choice, and thus had to shake Erik until he partially regained consciousness.

"Erik, we're in the alleyway. Now what should we do?" he asked, and when no response came, he spoke sharply in the man's ear. "Erik! Wake up."

"The dumpster," he said breathlessly, raising his head wearily. "Move it."

"But it's too heavy," Christine answered, eyeing the great metal bulk doubtfully. "We'll never be able to push it-"

"It lies upon a hinge," Erik said, nodding at the dumpster persistently. "It can be moved with very little effort. Once you do that, you'll see a brick protruding from the wall at a strange angle. Turn it sideways and push inward, and there'll be a passage just inside."

Christine slipped out from under his arm, laying it delicately against his side, and then proceeded to do as he had said. The dumpster swung outward at her touch, the brick swiveled expertly in its place, and the wall sank backward into the building with a dull scraping sound. Raoul took a moment to marvel at Erik's resourcefulness at finding such intricate concealments, (which were usually a secret save to those who had built the edifice in question), and then followed Christine into the overbearing blackness that lay ahead of them.

Erik remained aware enough to instruct them on where to go, seemingly able to perceive what lay in the dark with nocturnal eyes. Eyes that disturbed Raoul more than he would ever admit. The air was dank and almost frigid, stale from being trapped within the confines of underground warrens for so long. As they passed from one corridor to the next, Raoul could begin to imagine the disorientation and terror of being brought into such a world. Yet in the silence there was a tranquility, however ominous and vast, that instilled a sense of wonder, and bespoke a type of awe that left one at the mercy of the darkness. And those who dwelt in it. He now saw as Christine would have, in her journey through a world like this, with a phantom at her side. He could only gape, and imagine.

At last they came to a passageway that appeared to have a dead end, but Raoul knew they had arrived at the secret entrance to Christine's dressing room. He vaguely contemplated how many times Erik must have stood here, listening to her as she moved about inside, or singing to her in the dead of the night. He pushed it aside, (for now was not the time), and leaned against the wall, which swung forward into the room.

Christine proceeded them, hastily pulling a chair from the corner and pushing it into the middle of the room. Raoul stumbled over with Erik now heavily relying upon him to stay upright, and gently settled the man down into the seat. At once, Erik's entire form went limp, and he heaved a great sigh, though whether in relief or in pain Raoul could not tell. He rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, and as the moments flickered by without incident, Christine and Raoul slowly came to kneel before him. Waiting. When at last Erik raised his head in a weary fashion, to stare at them blurrily, Raoul heard Christine take in a faint gasp of air, and saw immediately the reason for it.

A drop of blood had escaped at the bottom of the mask, descending in an almost lethargic manner down the rough skin of his cheek. A wound lay beneath the emotionless leather on the left side of his face, and for a moment Raoul could imagine with shocking lucidity the details of such an injury. A deep gash that ran across the distorted flesh, making every misshapen fold of skin appear red and inflamed by comparison. Movement gratefully pulled his mind back from this vision, and he saw Christine reaching for the mask. She was merely reacting out of concern, meaning to administer some relief if she could, but Erik responded violently. He pushed her hand away brusquely, turning away from them and covering the mask with a protective hand.

"Leave it," he said bluntly, the merest hint of anger lying just beneath the surface. That, and shame. "I'll tend to it myself."

Christine sighed softly, a tender light pulsing in her eyes that held more than just concern. Something in him revolted against it, and a hurtful ache flashed inside his heart for a brief moment. She turned to him.

"I'll go fetch some hot water and soap, to clean the open cuts," she said, a lilt of pity barely surfacing in her voice. "Look in the cabinet for some towels to stop the bleeding."

As she made her way from the room, Erik huffed in an almost irritated demeanor, his hand still held to that damn mask as though it were the only anchor from his pain. It caused a wave of anger to come over Raoul, for though he knew that the man's pride and self reliance had been battered, the act seemed almost infantile.

"She was only trying to help," Raoul said, opening the cabinet and searching for the towels. "You should be grateful that someone cares for you, especially someone like Christine. After everything, she still wants to help you. After all the terror and uncertainty and guilt you put her through-" He realized that he had begun to speak to himself more than to Erik, using the man's presence as an excuse to converse with himself over all that he had pondered. And failed to comprehend. He turned and looked at the back of that inscrutable human being, pondering ever more until his distress morphed into something uncontainable and he had to find an outlet.

"Besides, we all know what lies beneath that mask. It's not something one easily forgets."

He walked over and took a seat by the vanity, tossing the towels he had found into Erik's lap with a blasé indifference. Erik picked one up slowly, his eyes an inferno of unmitigated disdain, and began dabbing gently at the corner of his busted lip. He winced, grimacing as the touch of the fabric met the open lesion, but he continued to stare at the vicomte, who merely contented himself to return the gaze with equal abhorrence. There was a mutual condescension here, a simple scorn in the space between them that cut both to the quick. Raoul had given help when it was needed most, but that did not diminish the fact that he was the one person in all the world that Erik wanted help from the least, a person who coveted the only thing he now lived for. Christine.

"I am grateful for her concern, her compassion, but it's not _me_ she cares for," Erik spat, and Raoul could only stare, mystified. Erik leaned forward, the motion meant to provide impression to his next words. "She cares for the Angel, not for me. The voice that sang to her, lulled her to sleep, listened to her fears and joys, who gave her music. It is there that her affection lies. She is only now beginning to know _me_, who I am, where I've been, what I've seen and gone through. She did not choose me, so you can cease this childish loathing of my presence. She loves you, which is the sole reason for why you helped me tonight, and so it is you that should be most grateful. "

"No Erik," Raoul said, his breath barely a whisper on the air. The words fluttered on his tongue like the aftertaste of a foul tonic, thick with bitterness and raw resentment, but he spoke them anyway, if only to hear them and realize their truth. "You're wrong. She didn't choose me. She chose you."

His eyes remained stolid and unblinking, a morose need to see this reaction infiltrating his senses. Erik's face thinned out as the meaning sank deeper, his eyes never wavering as his expression changed from confusion to insight to a wild, doubtful hope. A sheer phrase that somehow deconstructed the past few years of his life, a few words that dismantled every foundation of memory and brought light to hallowed places of willful ignorance. He had known, had beheld the truth and still kept it in chambers where his mind would not trespass. Had it actually taken six years for Christine to choose? What had occurred beneath the opera house was no longer relevant; it had been the final scene of the second act, only the second, and now it seemed that third was about to commence.

"What...I don't...what do you mean?" Erik stammered. The aggression had evaporated from his voice, leaving only bewilderment and an acute need to understand.

"What do you think I mean?" Raoul snapped, his despair lashing out in anger. "What _else_ could I possibly mean? You're...you're not the same man that we left in Paris, and Christine knows it. Whatever existed between us is now over. All we have is are memories of love, nothing more."

"How?" he asked, staring with rapt wonder at this confession. "How could you know such a thing without asking her?"

"I did ask her," Raoul replied bitterly, and stood, moving across the room where he could speak aloud without having to face him. "The other day, when she returned from having visited you, I asked her. Simple. 'Do you still love me?' Simple. And being the kind of person she is, she told me the truth."

And without another word to Erik, he let himself remember for a moment.

_"Do you still love me?"_

_He despised the consuming quiet that followed this question, for the silence in itself seemed to be a premonition of the answer that would follow. She stared up avidly into his face, a lock of brown hair spilling across her face and framing it perfectly. He wanted to reach forward and gracefully sweep it behind her ear, as though that mere action could reclaim anything at all, but restrained himself. For some reason, it did not seem right._

_"What am I to say? What you want to hear, or what we both already know?" Her voice was not mocking, nor cold in the least. Merely contemplative. And sad. So poignantly sad. "I think you know what I would say."_

_"I think I do as well," he admitted, letting his fingers rest against the supple skin of her cheek. Maybe for the last time. "But I want...no, I need to hear it. I think you need to hear it too. If just to hear it once, and understand."_

_She kissed him lightly on the lips, barely a breath between them and only for a second. _

_"Raoul." His name, a declaration that the end of their road, their marriage, had come. Her tone was regretful but bracing, no tinge of a lie or trace of deception; she would tell him the truth, a profession of altered love, however undying, that lived in the form of picnics and beaches and now silent violins. "I do love you, I'll always love you, but not the way you want me to. We'll never be what we were; the music faded long ago, but we had something so special that we didn't want to admit it."_

_"I'll always love you," he had replied, and her beautiful dark eyes had brimmed with tears. He had smiled at her, despite the withering dreams that had slowly flickered and passed out of existence, and kissed her on the forehead. "But now, I think, you love another."_

The last two words echoed in his memories, and he closed his eyes against them. But still, they were heard. _"I do."_

"Raoul?" His name again, this time a question.

"I was headed to pick up my things at the apartment when we found you," he said, his voice oddly detached now, clipped and unemotional. "I'm taking a carriage tonight and moving to upstate New York. I won't be far, should she need me, but I think it's time that this charade ended. We talked well into the night, more than we have in the past few years, and it was lovely. But friends...that is all we were ever meant to be."

A brief pause ensued, so tangible that it almost hurt. "I'm sorry," Erik whispered, but it wasn't an apology, and they both knew it. Yet Raoul believed he was sincere, that a part of him regretted this parting for them, if only because he himself had once suffered the same.

With that bleak assurance, which did not guarantee an affirmation of right over wrong in the least, Raoul turned and faced him, the Opera Ghost, the Phantom; whatever he truly was beneath the shadows and the clandestine corridors and the mask. Yellow eyes met his gaze. There really was only one thing left to say, but it had already been spoken in so many other ways, in threats and actions and a final admission of honesty. He said it anyway.

"Take care of her, Erik. Do what I could not, and give her happiness. Give her music. Don't you dare make this all for nothing. Don't you dare."

Erik continued to stare at him, possibly seeing him for the first time as a person and not just the faceless image that had borne his love away. Yet there was pity in that gaze, entrenched among an averse respect and an awful understanding, but pity most of all. He couldn't stand that, not from this man, and so he turned away again as Christine opened the door, laden with a basin of hot water and a bar of soap. She glanced between them, a dull sort of perception forming as she read their expressions, and interpreted the feel of the room. She entered and knelt before Erik, taking a towel gently and soaking it in the water. She looked up at him, a comforting smile already forming on her lips, and he smiled back softly, taking care not to ignite the cut in his lip.

She placed a hand over his, which he grasped in turn, and then Raoul left them there, closing the door lightly behind him.

As he made his way down the hall, the door suddenly opened behind him and Christine emerged, the light from the candle inside glowing around her frame and giving the illusion that she was its source, an unwavering beacon. She came to him slowly, a tear spilling down her cheek as she did so. It was only when she brushed his cheek with her warm fingertips that he realized that he was crying as well. She did not speak, and he was grateful for that. Her voice might shatter what self imposed courage he had maintained, and his heart would not be able to beat its rhythmic song. He felt her hand enclosed around his, so small and precious, and knew what he now held before he had even glanced down. She smiled at him, delicately and without the promise of a lifetime, and somehow, as Erik had done before him, he did the last thing his mind could surrender to. He let her go.

It was only in the carriage an hour later, as he sat by himself and watched New York pass by just outside his window, that he was able to open his hand and look at the tiny gold wedding band that lay forlornly in his palm.

* * *

AN: Not that I have anything against Raoul, but I'm glad this part of the story is over. (And I'm sure I'm not the only one). Now I can really start in on the Erik/Christine stuff, (yeah!) and really work on their relationship. I promise to have the next chapter up sooner than this one, so stick with me and please review! 


	8. Simple and Slow

Disclaimer: I own Phantom! Not really. I can't even save you money on your car insurance.

A/N: I know, I know; I broke my promise. I'm really trying to update sooner, but it's getting increasingly difficult. Hopefully in the near future I can put aside more free time to write, but I'm not sure when. Just stick with me, okay? Life will ease out soon, and then I'll be able to devote many hours to my favorite couple. Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated, and a very affectionate thank you to those who reviewed my last chapter; we all remember how strenuous that one was, what with Raoul and all. Here's the new chapter, completely Erik/Christine oriented, so enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 8: Simple and Slow

He would not let her tend to his wounds. At least, not the one which lay beneath the mask.

He had spent the past few days resting in her dressing room, lying in a detached state of pensiveness that seemed nearly melancholic. She would care for his injuries, cleaning the deeper cuts and bandaging them, trying to avoid brushing the darker bruises that covered his skin in numerous places. He would remain quiet, wincing at times when she would nurse a particularly tender sore, never once meeting her eyes. She briefly mentioned the cut beneath his mask, but he had immediately shaken his head and taken the wash cloth from her, retreating to the dark interior of the secret passageway behind her cabinet. When he returned, there was a thin streak of blood on the towel.

While he recuperated, she attended rehearsals down the hall, her own abstraction of mind revealing itself in her music. She auditioned for the lead role in _La Chambre Rouge_, as she had promised Legenyll the same night as Erik's return. Always, there was the underlying hint of something strained, forced through shrouds of impassiveness so that every word held an uncoupling of emotion and sound. Always, the image of the wedding band in Raoul's palm floated behind her eyes, gilding her thoughts in regret for his sorrow and guilt for his pain. No end was easy, but Erik's despondent silence set her adrift to mourn alone.

The theater became her world again, for now that Raoul had moved to a new apartment there was no need for the one they had shared together. The first night she had merely wandered through the empty rooms, hearing specter sounds of disillusion and touching objects of no great worth, but which pulsed with nimble reminders of a life that had been given to memory. On the second night, she had packed away the few things that still kept value for her, a disconnection being rendered as she stowed away six years in a few simple boxes.

On the third night, she had sold everything else, along with the apartment.

She was now living in her dressing room, as many of the lesser cast members were known to do. Erik had only stayed for two nights, eventually absolving himself to the lofty domain of his solitude, which seemed to be the only place where he could really ever heal. She had visited him many times, spending hours in suspended stillness without sound or speech, waiting for the lingering poignancy of his voice to shatter the turmoil of their separate hearts. It wasn't until she came upon him in her dressing room again some few days later that he gave her audience to his deepening depressions.

When she entered, he was sitting at her vanity, staring with stringent appraisal at his reflection. He rested his chin on his hand, the fingertips just gracing the bottom of the mask, and with morbid certainty she knew that he had been looking at his disfigurement only moments before she had opened the door. In the lighted mirror, his golden eyes were as catching as the sun, the pupil like some dark core of the eclipse. Without turning, he saw her in the mirror and their eyes met, his never leaving hers as she walked warily to a chair at his side.

"It's been some time," he said, and despite the strange laxity of his tone, the vibrancy of that voice was undeniable, and Christine found that she almost didn't care what he said next, if he would only speak. Speak and stay with her. "I did not see you these past two nights."

"I thought you wanted to be alone," she replied, averting her eyes as she added, "I didn't here your voice in my dreams, and so I thought you might still be needing rest. I didn't want to bother you."

"You could never bother me," he said, and when she glanced up it was his turn to look away, a hint of guilt embedded in his expression. "I've not had the heart to sing for the last week. Everything I do holds some discomfort for me, though not always physical."

"It hurts me to hear you say that," she whispered, and truly it did. The thought of his music not being able to provide comfort for him, of becoming another fatality of his seclusion, was too terrible to conceive. He looked up at her, surprise etched on one side of his face while the mask concealed the other, and the emotion with it.

"There is no reason to be upset on my account," he said bemusedly, still staring at her in a puzzled fashion. It slowly dissolved into a look of remoteness where the eyes turned inward, seeing within but revealing nothing to her. He spoke distantly. "It is no great matter that troubles me now. Only a worn and familiar fact that I have lived with my whole life. That, and a confusion that I have rarely dealt with, if ever at all."

"You're speaking in riddles," Christine replied, and the edge of exasperation had crept into her tone.

"I'm sorry if that annoys you," he said, rather curtly, and returned his gaze to the mirror.

"It doesn't annoy me; I just don't understand," she said in return, baffled by his terse attitude. "Has it something to do with...me?"

"Why? Would that settle your unease?" he asked sharply.

"What unease? Erik, you're not making any sense," she said, a hint of anger in her own voice.

"Where do we go from here?"

The question put an abrupt end to her rambling thoughts. His eyes never wavered from his reflected image, where maybe in some other world that image could remove its mask and behold a face unmarred and whole, preceded in years by a life less battered in cruelty. An indistinct suspicion bloomed in her mind, emerging through the adjourned train of previous thought. Perhaps he wanted, _needed_ to hear what his heart so frantically yearned for; what hope had driven to impulse once before, in vain, and what possibly kept him perpetual when his genius should have kept him aimless. To know if she loved him or not.

Was that the reason for this melancholy?

But so much uncertainty existed within her own feelings that she was damned to speak of them at all, for fear of causing more harm. And she really didn't know if that was the trouble for all his silent and saddening meditation. But still...to confuse affection with passion at such a time and place, when a second chance flickered on a dying ember of betrayal and loss, would ruin them both. She needed more time, yet he needed an answer, and it was obvious that either one could create the damage she strove to avoid. She shook her head slowly, and he looked at her with a strange disappointment that hurt her worse than his anger or his graveness could ever have done.

"I don't know either," he sighed heavily, and his tone once again transformed into that distant, preoccupied quality. "Perhaps I'm simply letting emotion overrule judgement. I dream of caves filled with music and melodies unsung through the passing of time, yet I wake to find myself across an ocean of secrets in a city where my quest for salvation has finally led me. Yet in both, you're still there, shining as bright as your first aria on stage but singing only to me. But here, in this place, you are...more. You're Christine as she would have been, if I had only remained a voice from above and nothing else. You're no longer sixteen."

"Things have changed," she said, not knowing how to respond.

"Yes, they have," he agreed, and began to rise from his chair, meaning to leave.

She suddenly found the idea of being alone almost frightening, as though if he left now she would never again have the chance to hear him sing, or watch him play the violin in glorious strokes of the arm. Or have him smile at her. She reached forward on impulse and laid a hand on his forearm, calling back his attention with one gentle gesture. He turned to her, perplexed and somewhat cautious.

"Please Erik, tell me what's wrong. Your silence is deafening, if only because I don't know where it comes from or why. And more so than ever..." The words began to shudder as they filled with tears, her bottom lip trembling as she strove to hold back her vulnerability, her loneliness. "I need you. Everything has changed so fast, and some nights I'm left so alone with thoughts of before. I don't know if what I did was fair, or if I have acted selfishly because of my feelings for...I just don't know. All I know is that you've always been there for me...but when I can't hear your voice-"

"Christine, don't cry. Please don't cry. I can't stand it," he said with near desperation, his voice so gentle and concerned. Through a blurry mist she saw his gloved hands reach out and take her own, where they lay folded neatly in her lap. The leather was warm, pulsing with heat from the skin below where she could feel his fingers, grasping hers lightly as though cradling a delicate thing, a fragile network of flesh and blood and bone. He whispered softly but firmly. "Christine, look at me."

She raised her eyes, which felt leaden by beaded weights of apprehension and uncertainty. He was gazing at her equably with that penetrating stare that always made her feel like an open book, an expanse of introverted secrets turned outward to be read and deciphered. Yet there was also guilt there, a guilt and sorrow that seemed nearly akin to her own, except for the primary mention of fear that was integrated throughout. She felt drawn by the power of that fear, for she recognized it as the look of the hunter when they are unsure of the game, but without the dominance of needing to posses some trophy afterwards. The look of a man with everything to lose. His next question was laced with a basic note of finality, and she knew it was his indirect way of circling the true nature of whatever troubled him.

"Have you any regrets?" he asked quietly. She did not need to ask the subject of his question.

"Many, but not because of the result," she replied truthfully, and she knew that he would need more. She also needed to verbalize it, to see for herself the principal mainstay of her thoughts and hear the reality of it, to see if there was actually any truth in it at all. _She_ needed more.

"I was in love with him once, but for the wrong reasons. I was so afraid and so alone...even your music was not enough, because it was only ever a voice that drifted through my walls, and during the day, I didn't even have that as a comfort. Then this bright memory that I had nearly forgotten came to life, and there was Raoul, standing in my dressing room with a bouquet of flowers and his own memories to share. And Erik, he was such a dear friend, and always will be, but at that moment he was more because I needed him to be. He was love and protection and a little piece of home...a warm summer's day like the ones my father use to adore, when he could play his violin outside our house by the sea. I was in love with him, until I realized that I wasn't in love with him. Can you understand that?"

"Yes," he replied, ever so softly. "Yes, I think I do."

"There's so much that lies between us, Erik, between you and me," she said after a moment, gently gripping the hands that held her own. "Most of it is pain and regret - and betrayal. But there's beauty there as well. There always was, and I want so much to be a part of it again, and I know you do as well.

"Just give it time."

He stared at her with an ardent and warm regard. There was love in his gaze, alighting his golden eyes into shining spheres of adoration, and she wondered vaguely if the same emotion was not lurking in her own. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, his lips warm and tenderly lenient against her skin. She laid a delicate hand against the worn leather of his mask, reassuring him with a caressing touch. She knew it must have taken great conviction and a compulsion of deepest emotion to reach out so far, to brave his inner struggles for just a moment to kiss her of his own accord. When he pulled back he stood up, pulling her after him and leading her over to the cabinet. He opened it, revealing the shadowy interior that concealed a corridor in its darkness, and turned back to her with a small smile of mischief playing across his features.

* * *

They were moving through an expansive room with a vaulted ceiling, one so high that it was lost to obscurity. The carpet beneath their feet was dusty from neglect and age, colored a deep red in its glory days but lingering as a tainted burgundy now. There were pews to either side, massive oak benches that ran the entire width of the room until it collided with the walls, which were a moldy gray and broken in some places to expose the supporting beams inside. Marvelous stain glass windows were spread behind the alter at the forefront, framing an immense podium flanked by numerous choir tiers. It was late evening, so the tainted panes became blooded crimsons and innate blues, caught in the darkening fire of the setting sun.

"Erik, how old is this church?" she asked in a whisper. Though they were alone, she felt the need to keep her voice low.

"I'm not sure," he replied, and she smiled when she heard his own voice mimic her quiet tone. "I found it the same day I arrived in New York. No one comes here anymore, and I suspect that's been the case for many years now. Aside from the graveyard, I come here often to compose. Or just to sit and think."

"How far are we from the Bowery?" she asked, still staring up at the indistinct ceiling.

"Quite far. We've come a long way," he replied, and paused for a moment. He appeared to be collecting himself, gathering together a string of thoughts to produce as words, and Christine gave him time without interruption until he spoke again. "I'm sorry for my behavior earlier, at the theater. Things have seemed so out of place lately since...and I've not been myself at all. It's just-"

"Erik, there's no need for an apology," Christine said, cutting of his explanation to save him discomfort. And then, very softly, "You're not the only one who has been somewhat lost. We'll get through it, you and me, however long it may take. I know we will."

He smiled warmly at her, and she felt a chill pass through her at its artless grace.

"It's magnificent, isn't it?" he asked wistfully, and there was a note of dejection in his voice. "Like the secret hideaways children discover in their adolescence."

"Despite its ware, it's quite lovely," she said, admiring the windows. "It's very peaceful here. No one to come and nag at you, or follow you-"

"Or hurt you," Erik finished, his voice barely audible, and he looked into a far corner, averting his eyes. It broke her heart in so many ways that it actually remained whole in a terrible sense, like glass shattered into millions of fragments until it cannot shatter at all, only linger eternally in its fragile state.

"Erik," she said softly.

"My name on your lips," he said, almost to himself. "I could never write a song to match it. It transcends music."

"Erik," she said again, and took his hand in hers like a pair of lovers on a fine spring day might do, lacing her fingers through his and squeezing gently.

He had no words, or else couldn't speak them. He merely pressed her hand lightly in return, holding it against his chest just above the heart, but she understood.

It was as they made their way towards the front of the church, walking hand in hand up the center aisle now, that Christine tripped on a raised section of the carpet, and fell down. She landed awkwardly, pulling Erik after her with their hands still linked. He helped her to her feet, and she rose shakily while examining the front of her dress. It was stained heavily from the dirt and grime that lived in the breeding grounds of the neglected carpet, leaving irregular discolorations on the delicately woven fabric. She looked up at Erik to see him staring at her with great concern, a worry line creased in his brow.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and the apprehension in that voice was evident.

She couldn't help it; she laughed. The unexplainable need for it suddenly flared up, bubbling in her throat like fine champagne and breeching the reserve of her etiquette. An expression of bewilderment replaced his pained look of concern, which only made her laugh harder. After a moment, in which her guilt began to drown her abrupt giddiness, Erik started to laugh. It was the most glorious sound she had ever heard, rippling in waves of perfect resonance and echoing with a wondrous timbre into the unfathomable corners of the church. It was the surpassed majesty of an extraordinary song, like some exotic and mysterious music from outlands of fruitful realms, and it created a tranquil nature in her heart that left her speechless. She knew that if she could only make him laugh, fill him with the express joy of it and give him serenity thereby, that nothing else could possibly matter as much.

"What are we laughing at?" he managed to ask amid his laughter.

"I...I...," she tried to explain, and then fell helplessly into another peal of laughter. His own intensified, and together they stood laughing like a pair of fools and holding onto each other to remain upright. She tried again when she was able to catch her breath. "It's just a dress, but you looked so worried on my account that I couldn't help it. I guess it's not really that funny, but it struck me as so at the time."

"I'm sure my expression was laughable," he assured her, still chuckling lightly. "I was concerned more for your well being than the dress, but I can see it from your point of view. I haven't laughed like that in...I'm not sure how long it's been. All I know is that when I heard you laugh, I just felt it build up in me. It was beautiful to listen to."

"Yes it was," Christine replied fondly, and she saw his eyes glow momentarily with understanding. He smiled in a rather shy manner, which made her smile broadly in return.

Then suddenly he hissed in an expression of pain, putting a hand to his side and leaning against the nearest pew for support. Christine was at his side at once, laying a hand on his shoulder and staring anxiously up into his face. He tried to smile but the attempt was brief, and his breathing had become drastically shallow. For a moment they continued that way, as Erik took slow and steadied breaths to sooth the ache in his abdomen. When at last the throbbing subsided, he straightened himself and turned to her, shaking his head to assure her that he was alright.

"It's nothing," he said, trying to appear unaffected. "I think all that laughing set it off. I've been rather lethargic this past week, attempting to recuperate; I guess I overdid it a bit, didn't I?"

"Maybe I should take you back home," she said uncertainly, meaning his abode along the skyline. She eyed him cagily.

"No, I'm fine. Really I am," he insisted, taking both her hands once again. He smiled that mischievous smile of his, the infamous smirk of the Opera Ghost. "Besides, there's something I'd like to show you first."

He led her up a flight of stairs to the right of the alter, taking great care as some of the steps were rotted through. The smell of mildew and dust departed as they moved higher, leaving the main hall behind in all its shaded and former glory. They came upon the belfry, where bells of yesteryear stood with ancient intellect in their silent dignity, no chime having erupted from their sacred hulls in many a sunset. The last rays of this sunset were cast off the rusted metals of the colossal figures, striking mixed hues of orange and red over the woodwork. Erik brought her to the rail of a balcony that stood just adjacent to the bells, letting the sight speak for itself as they gazed from the perch in their clandestine tower. She gasped softly.

"Paris was a beautiful city," he whispered, his tone no less awed than her responsive gasp, although he had obviously been here before. "Yet still, there was never a view like this from the roof of the Populaire."

"It's beautiful," she whispered in return, feeling as though all the world were stretched out before her.

"Wait until the sun is fully set," he replied, anticipation nearly radiating off him. "When the stars come out; it makes one feel insignificant by comparison."

After a time she felt his arm around her shoulders, holding her against him tenderly as though without a care in the world. She leaned into his embrace, feeling secure in his warmth but still held rapturously by the scene in front of her. She placed a hand lightly on his chest, relishing the feel of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips, and felt something solid just below the fabric of his shirt. She realized that it was the ring, lying in its ordained spot as the bells behind her were fated to hang in their exalted prisons. Yet in that moment it seemed more a symbol of an undying promise, forged in the passion of their music without word or lyric, merely felt but never heard. The thought gave her comfort, and a strengthening hope that there still lingered hope in essence of itself.

She sighed contentedly, as did Erik beside her, and they watched the sun slip below its western boundary across the great expanse of the vast and limitless sea.

* * *

A/N: Did you feel the love in that chapter? Tell me about it! No, I mean really; push the little button at the bottom of the page and tell me about. So long and farewell, my dear readers... 


	9. Respites

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. I have nothing else to say.

A/N: I know updating is taking awhile, but hang in there and please don't give up on me. When summer hits, I'll have more free time to write and chapters will be up sooner. A couple of notes before you start to read. One, this chapter is another experiment of mine. At least, in the way it's written, as you'll come to see. Second, the Park Theater was a prestigious theater existing at the same time as the Bowery, and much more famous and reputable. With that, I will now let you continue on your way. Enjoy, as I always do when I'm typing it up.

* * *

Chapter 9: Respites

The dream had always lurked in his mind, unbound by reality in defiance of it, and forged only with the need for escape. At times it was the release that he had created it to be, taking him from bleak surroundings to places of evanescent beauty. But during those times of dwindling hours, encumbered by rampaging memories of wrath and desire, he became a slave of self, bent inward with the torture of his own thoughts where even his music fell short of its glory. The dream had both compelled and subjugated him from the moment of its conception, inspiring the greatest melodies he had ever written and the darkest coves of madness he had ever entered, fueling his ever poignant need for absolution. Yet for this first time in all the years he had harbored it within the cradle of a wish, it was only now that it began to elude its barriers and liberate itself from doubt.

Of course, Christine was the dream. To love her, and to be loved by her in return.

Over the weeks following their shared moment in the church, the time spent in her company became the most peaceful he had ever known. Small happenings between them were, for him, the most remembered thereafter, as many of the shortest moments in life tend to become. The freedom of a bond in motion, growing without entreaty or restraint, revealed to him for the first time the actual workings of friendship and genuine affection, where things were no longer confused by fear. What fascinated him the most, and charmed him in so many ways, were the visits he received from her, unexpected and entirely captivating. He would glance toward the doorway to find her standing there, having come to see him of her own accord to talk or sing or merely sit with him, and something inside him would fall still in wonder, as though the maiden before him were clad in white with a pair of lovely wings spread behind her; a real, true angel.

Yet even as his senses told him that they were drawing ever closer, not only together but towards an end of some kind, the world about them began to constrict. Their enemies were just as close.

* * *

Interval I

"What were in all those boxes?" Christine whispered, holding onto his arm in the darkness as they made their way back.

"Whiskey, cigars, guns," Erik replied, placing his hand over hers protectively. The atmosphere within the secret passageways, a second skin to the theater into which he could utterly dissolve, had now become wholly unfamiliar with the rigid chill of conspiracy. If the chambers were being used to hide stolen goods, then who was to say that these passageways would go untouched? "Those rooms were filled twice as much as the last time I was there. It seems Monsieur Legenyll has been keeping up with his underground business quite well."

"And you're sure that Mr. Waymend is involved?" she asked, and he could hear the disappointment in her voice. Mr. Waymend, the assistant manager, appeared to be a man of good sense, good nature, (and Erik had to admit from the rehearsals that he had attended - an exceptional tenor), and the thought of him taking part in such an operation was truly depressing.

"I'm afraid so," he said, and he felt her regret in the sudden slack of her posture. He wished he could spare her the disappointment and the anxiety, if only to spare her the slightest grievances at all. "There may be trouble ahead, possibly for us but definitely for those involved in the secret on goings taking place here."

"What makes you so certain?" she asked, not cruelly but with curiosity - and a vain, hopeful desire to find fault in his reasoning.

"You're still being followed." It was not a question. She fell silent.

He did not wish to distress her, as they had just shared a wonderful evening of music in one of the abandoned lesson rooms in the oldest section of the building, and he was loathe to ruin the euphoria that had been his for the past few hours. They had passed through the hidden chambers as he escorted her back to her dressing room, meaning to use it as a shortcut to bypass the open hallways, and at the sight of the stacked crates she had suddenly grown quiet. The ominous feel of those rooms had given segue to a novel understanding for her, one he had been observing himself with mounting tension. A building friction in the atmosphere of the theater. It was a persistent awareness, and the thin film of dread tasted sour on his tongue.

They presently came upon the back of the wardrobe, and Erik pushed it aside as he stepped over the threshold, taking in the soft colorlessness of pastel in candlelight and the sweet fragrance of subtle perfume. He felt a tug at his arm and turned to see Christine still standing in the passageway, an expression of rising apprehension clouding her features and dim copies of anxiety misted in her eyes. An immediate unease took hold, tingling like the shadow of a sixth sense and revealing that there lurked the same emotion in himself. He stepped cautiously nearer, concerned and foreboding.

"What's wrong?" he asked gently.

"I'm afraid. Ever since I arrived here, I've been wary, but now I fear-," she paused, shaking her head and searching for a word.

"What do you fear?" he asked when she did not reply.

"That maybe...maybe this is too good to be true," she whispered, and raised her eyes slowly to meet his own. He felt her fingertips embrace his through the leather of his glove, shy for the first time in so long, and he felt a brief jittery sensation in his stomach. "We've never really known each other, save by our shared spirit in music, but now...now I'm afraid that, with Legenyll and all else that surrounds this theater, after how far we've come..."

"Nothing will happen to us," he said, but the assurance sounded false to his own ears. An insistent perception of disorder, of viler schemes and impending cataclysms, could not be shaken from him. He sensed a deepening deception, but decided against speaking of it in light of Christine's dismay. Instead, he spoke with comfort. "What Legenyll does need not concern us. He has not disturbed you or I for several weeks now, and there's no need to think he will do so anytime soon. We'll be alright. Do you believe me?"

With reluctance she nodded, trying to smile despite the imposing doubt that covered them both. She leaned into him, embracing him and laying her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms about her with care, amazed as always to be able to hold her delicate frame against him and feel her exhale in rhythm with his own breathing, almost a single soul. Almost. The sinister intuition eased to a dull throb at the back of his mind, faint but still pulsing, letting his morose thoughts of duplicity

transgress into sweeter things. He felt a smile surface with the idea that emerged, simmering in the glow of a new elation. He let disquiet slip out of awareness for the time being, dismissing it into obscurity until events brought it back into motion.

"Christine?"

"Yes?"

"Will you have dinner with me?"

* * *

Interval II

They sat together in his forgotten realm of isolation, Persian rugs spread all around them in faded hues from muted candlelight. The candles themselves sputtered in faint winds that passed through openings in the cracked windows, a shield of luminous points that held the night at bay. The table was draped in a stunning white cloth, a single red rose in the delicate vase between them. The air was permeated by the distant sounds of the city and the echoes of their laughter, which still glistened around them like the chimes of a bell. She sat across from him, her brown eyes an almost profound shade of black in the dim light.

"I saw you during rehearsal today," she said, smiling mischievously as she took a sip of wine.

"Oh really?" he asked with feigned disinterest, trying not to smile himself.

"Well, it was hard not to," she replied. "When you spook half of the orchestra in the pit, people tend to notice. I saw you behind the curtains, just before you disappeared."

"It was only a glimpse of me at best," he said, a note of near pride in his voice. "Those violinists were far too edgy. Easily startled under any circumstances, no doubt. In any case, I'm sorry I disturbed your practice. I know it's important to you with the performance of _La Chambre Rouge_ in just a matter of weeks, as you do have the lead role."

"Yes. I'm getting enormous pressure from Legenyll to perform to my best abilities," Christine agreed, sighing slightly. He heard the faint tones of fatigue in her sigh, a vague perception of weariness, and he felt a dull throb of anger pulse at the back of his mind. "Apparently, several investors have taken an interest in the Bowery. There will be an enormous party in the foyer afterwards. A masque actually, as the premiere falls so close to Christmas and New Years."

He snorted. "It's about the damn money, of course. 'The best of your abilities.' As if you could do any less."

She smiled at the compliment, but it faded quickly.

"Erik," she began uncertainly, glancing down nervously at her lap, and her hesitancy made him lean forward slightly, concerned. "I've also heard that some of the investors were interested...in me. Some of the chorus girls said they overheard them discussing potential new...stars, as some of them own other theaters here in New York, and that one of them mentioned...they mentioned the Park Theater."

She glanced up at him quickly, as though needing to see if his reaction would be negative. He couldn't understand why, as the news was far too exquisite to merit anger or disappointment, or anything other than pure joy. He sat momentarily with the idea floating about his thoughts, shifting through memories and old sensations that he had lain aside for many years now. Slowly, he felt a smile start to unfurl on his lips and saw Christine smiling in unison with him. The surprise and disbelief she had spoken with seized his heart with a cold hand. He realized that she had thought herself so much less capable, so much less a part of his music than she really was, and it caused him pain to see it. How could she doubt herself?

"Christine, you were only ever worth the greatest that could be offered to you," he said, staring straight into her eyes. He saw a glimmer of something there, trying to force the abject emotions in her to yield; trying to believe him. His voice was steady as he said softly, "That is why I couldn't force you to love me."

"No Erik. If I stand a chance at all of being the best it's because of you," she replied, gripping his hand across the table. The urgency she spoke with revealed how sincere she was, and he gripped her hand tightly in return. Her next words were tender but undeniably truthful. "You couldn't force me to love you because I didn't love you then. Your world was fear and control, and I fought that with the only thing I had apart from you. Love, but for another."

"I'm sorry. I meant this to be a pleasant evening, and now I've gone and changed the mood horribly," he said, standing quickly from the table and using the empty dishes as an excuse. He took them over near the basin at the back of the room, his apology still ringing in his ears. It had sounded as though it were meant for something more, for some greater harm rendered.

When he returned she was standing near the piano, her right hand laying delicately atop the middle keys. She looked up at him, a request alight in her eyes, and he smiled at her in return, able to deny her nothing. Without a word he seated himself accordingly, and she took a seat nearby. He placed his hands upon the keys, feeling them instantly connect with the timbre of the instrument. A single pause for effect and then he was lost, living somewhere over the tiny silver hammers and the finely tuned strings, resting in the chamber of a thousand notes of grandeur. He could feel Christine as clearly as the music vibrating in his ribcage, watching his movements in relation to the sound and soaking it up. He never doubted the splendor of his own creation unless she was listening.

She left some time later, after she was sure that the music had eased the tension that had encircled them near the end of dinner. He knew it was the reason she had wanted him to play; it was his release, his dream. He wondered musingly if she could ever understand that, after he had made her smile, music was now only a _part_ of the dream. He drifted around the den for a bit, wandering through the familiar things he had surrounded himself with. The instruments, the carpets, the trunks full of compositions and other things. A strange feeling had taken hold of him, but he couldn't place it by name or from previous experience. One line kept replaying over and over again in his mind, bringing a new surge of this unknown emotion each time he heard it.

_Because I didn't love you then_. Then.

* * *

Interval III

He stood just behind the curtains, waiting. The orchestra was warming up, the violins and the cellos clashing horribly as they were tuned. The ballet filed past, murmuring excitedly to each other and barely containing themselves in eagerness. An exhilarating current of anticipation and restlessness could be felt in the very floorboards beneath his feet, vibrating like a deep rumble on the crest of its climax. It penetrated his blood, intoxicating him with its thrill until he was drunk from the pulse of the theater. He had forgotten how delirious the fever of the stage could be, engulfing the spirit until there was nothing but pure ecstasy, the wild and exuberant need to reveal to the world the majesty of song and tale. It was always like this when opening night lay but a few days away.

Yet there was another reason for his nerves and his expectation. It wasn't even the fact that Legenyll's men were standing only ten feet away, though the edge of danger did add a keen sense of awareness that he rather enjoyed. He waited, tapping his foot lightly and drumming his fingers impatiently against his leg. The chorus marched by, a few singers humming deep within their throats to warm the vocals. At last the actors walked towards the stage, checking their costumes to make sure their appearance was still pristine and perfect. As she passed by his hiding place, Erik reached out and pulled Christine into the shadow with him.

"What..?" she began, startled. A second later he saw her eyes widen, and she gasped, "Erik!"

"Feeling nervous?" he asked, unable to keep the exultation out of his own voice.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, glancing quickly over her shoulder at the men standing around backstage. "If they see you..."

"Then they can say, truly, that they have seen the infamous Opera Ghost," he whispered delightedly. He saw her tail near the exit for the dressing rooms, looking around with a bemused expression to see where she had gone. He smiled mischievously.

"Erik," Christine whispered, but he could see the trace of a smile at the edge of her lips. "You must leave before he comes over here. At least hide in the rafters, where it's darker. I can't sing if I know you're about to be found out."

"Found out? Tell me, my dear, how do you catch a phantom?" he asked with relish, and saw her smile at last.

"What are you so happy about?" she asked curiously, glancing over her shoulder again. A suspicious expression appeared on her face. "Are you about to play a prank?"

"Oh no. That would be interfering with my plans for tomorrow."

"Mademoiselle Daae!" a voice called from the stage.

"I have to go!" she said urgently, turning to leave. He grabbed her arm. There was one thing yet to say.

"Don't let anyone make you think that you're less than what you are," he said hoarsely. For a moment he thought he could feel his throat constrict, the words building up without an outlet to release them. Her eyes gleamed there in the darkness, so beautiful he thought he could perish in them. "A dying soul could live on your voice alone and never find a greater peace. No more doubt. Dare to make them dream. I did not train you to be silent when you were meant to be heard."

For a moment she continued to stare at him, completely at a loss. He nodded at her to go on, to go out and shine like he knew she could. She drew in a shaky breath and threw her arms around him, holding him closely with a gratitude he had rarely been a part of. His heart fluttered as he hugged her in return, a sensation he was becoming more and more use to as they warmed to each other. It amazed him that her embrace had become such a thing of familiarity. He had never believed that there would come a day when he would feel the touch of another and not find it alien.

"Mademoiselle Daae!" the voice called again with noted irritation.

She pulled away from him, her face for a moment so close to his.

"Thank you," she whispered in his ear, drawing back slowly, trying to keep him in sight.

"Go," he whispered, smiling softly, and she finally turned back towards the light of the stage.

He lingered only for a moment, watching her take up her position at the forefront of so many empty seats. He smiled broadly, loving the feel of the elation surging through his veins and the somewhat hazy cloud enveloping his mind. He turned and shifted back into the hollows of the theater, taking his secret routes to the catwalk above, where he could watch her without being disturbed. He did not see the eyes that watched him disappear into the shadows, or that glanced upward every so often to the darkened spaces over the stage. If he had, he may have noticed that he had seen them before.

* * *

A/N: Who was watching Erik?! We'll get to that later. For now, just review. Please. Pretty please. Please always sounds better with a pretty in front of it. 


	10. Inside the Walls

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. It's the tenth chapter people. If you haven't figured it out yet, God speed.

A/N: I know it's been awhile, but life has been hectic and I didn't want to just spill out a horribly written chapter. I hope the wait wasn't too long, and that you will be gracious enough to review. On the bright side, summer's here and I'll have more time to write, so there should be less of a gape between updates. Anyway, I'll shut up now and let you get to it. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 10: Inside the Walls

The backdrop came crashing down at the end of her solo. She had only one thought before the commotion began: _Erik._

The tumult was not as encompassing as it had been for the past two weeks. As little discrepancies came to common habit, many had simply given in to the perception of a ghost within the Bowery. Disembodied voices following the chorus girls, stage props vanishing into the ether, (backdrops crashing periodically throughout rehearsals). The first of these occurrences had frightened and baffled the attending staff, causing subsequent mayhem among the actors and ballet cast. After an incident within the orchestra pit, in which all the music for _La Chambre Rouge_ had been exchanged for Christmas melodies, the musicians had become perplexed as well. The managers dealt with the persistent pranks between a measure of tolerance and anger, which the poltergeist in question watched with amusement.

Thankfully, such ruses were only ever conducted during rehearsals, and never during performances. As Christine stood there, exasperated, whispers broke out like fervent hisses all about her, the verve of the theater taking on an inexplicable air. In the empty front row before her, Legenyll sat with his eyes closed in a pained expression, obviously trying to keep his temper in check. As the racket continued, he called out to the stage crew in his frustration.

"Will somebody please reset that damn backdrop!"

"Monsieur Legenyll?"

He glanced up at her, a segment of his anger fading as their eyes met. She walked to the edge of the stage, robed in billowing fabrics of numinous colors for this last dress rehearsal. He now wore an expression of expectation and submissiveness, knowing what she would ask from the habit that had formed over the past few weeks.

"Monsieur, may I please be excused for a moment?"

He sighed and waved his hand irritably. "Of course, mademoiselle. Besides, it will take us a bit of time to fix the set."

Nodding politely, she turned and slipped behind the curtains, making her way through the shielded world backstage. She headed directly for her dressing room, knowing who would be waiting there for her. Prying eyes watched from a distance as she entered, but were cut off as she closed the door behind her. Erik sat at her vanity, twirling a pen lazily between his fingers and wearing a mischievous grin. A mixture of amusement and charm rose in her at the sight; he seemed so relaxed and uninhibited, reserved by no bounds to be exactly as he wanted. Yet she restrained those feelings, assuming an air of responsibility and anxiety.

"Erik, you have to stop doing this," she said. The motion of his hand ceased, and she noticed that the object was not a pen, but one of the wooden spikes that held up the backdrop.

"Every theater has its haunt. It just so happens that _this_ theater has an extremely active one," he replied, his smiling widening. He seemed such the little boy, a playground of intricate corridors and a city of vast hiding places in which he could explore at his fingertips. "Making the cast and crew work a little harder for their earnings is hardly a sin, I should think."

"No, but the risk of you being seen could prove to be," she countered, walking over and taking a seat next to him. "Legenyll already knows of you, has been _looking _for you, and probably has deduced who is behind these confounding pranks already. Not to mention that the chorus girls are utterly terrified."

"Harmless fun," he said, but at the expression on her face he sat up straighter. "Am I to be allowed none?"

"Of course not," she said, and at the light dancing in his golden tint she found herself giving in, if only slightly. She began to smile despite her resolve, and his own broadened with hers. "All I'm saying is...back off. A little. Pranks are fun, but numerous pranks are suspicious. Just promise me you won't be dropping sets at every single rehearsal."

He leaned forward for emphasis. "I promise. But I couldn't help myself today. You look stunning in your costume, and I wanted to see you, if only for a moment. Besides, you seemed somewhat worn by the end of that last song."

"Well, I was getting rather tired of that particular solo," she confessed, yawning as though to demonstrate. "Legenyll had me sing it four times today."

"I could fix that, if you'd like," he said, another impish smile starting to take form. "Just say the word and you could be singing 'Come All Ye Faithful' at the top of your lungs."

She laughed at that, envisioning the bemusement of the orchestra on opening night. Erik laughed as well, and for a moment she simply basked in it, letting the sound roll about the room in harmonic waves. His eyes became such bright spheres of exhilaration when he laughed, carving the lines in his face to handsome detail. He seemed truly alive in those moments, glowing softly in the absence of his fate. She was close enough to see the sharp line of his jaw, and how it framed a noble quality in him. His smile was ever so light now, and his breathing was a gentle caress as she leaned forward, tracing the curve of his lips with her eyes and remembering their shape when he sang to her. She realized he was leaning into her, coming closer.

They stopped.

* * *

A muffled scratching had initiated behind the cabinet, almost unnoticeable in its light nature. The quiet that followed after was aberrant, a pregnant pause that seemed almost planned, as though concealing something. As was his nature, Erik stood without a sound and proceeded to stand next to the wardrobe, waving to Christine to stay where she was. With a practiced ear he listened for the slightest disturbance, his breathing a controlled discipline that made no noise. For a moment he heard nothing stir, he and Christine exchanging bewildered expressions. Then, the tiniest rustle of movement reached his ears, and with a massive wrench he threw back the wardrobe in one swift stroke.

A small, heaped figure rolled out onto the floor. When it had partially disentangled itself, Erik immediately recognized him as the young boy Pierre, who was normally to be found in the shadow of Robert Legenyll. Now that he cast his thoughts back, he could scarcely recall an instance in the past few weeks when the boy _had_ been in Legenyll's presence. He glared down at the child, suspicious of the boy's motives and intrigued as to how he knew of the hidden passageway behind Christine's cabinet. Did he know of the other secret corridors within the Bowery? Erik took a step forward, no doubt menacing to one who had just been discovered, and Pierre instinctively jumped to his feet.

"What were you doing back there?" he questioned, positioning himself between the passageway and the boy. Christine likewise stepped in front of the only other exit. "Were you listening in on our conversation?"

"I...I...of course not, monsieur," Pierre stammered, his eyes flickering to the mask with fearful wonder.

"Were you spying for someone?" he asked, fixing his steadiest glare on the boy. Pierre gulped visibly. "Were you spying for Legenyll?"

"No. No, I wasn't spying for anyone, I swear," he answered, and Erik took the sincerity he heard in that voice to be genuine. "Please monsieur, I didn't mean any harm."

Erik studied the youth before him, measuring up his actions and what little else he knew of him. It seemed the mischievousness of childhood, of adventure and mystery, had swept the boy up into an insatiable need of curiosity. Erik met eyes with Christine, raising an eyebrow to indicate his suspicion and mild amusement. He wondered how long the boy had been circumventing his awareness, sneaking on the outskirts of attention. He towered over the small figure, and Pierre stumbled backward until he was barred by the wall.

"Then, pray tell, what were you doing?" Erik asked, taking a step closer. He was barely holding back a grin, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christine place a hand over her mouth. "Trying to catch the infamous Opera Ghost, were you?"

"Then it is you!" Pierre exclaimed, and instantly clamped a hand over his mouth as Christine hissed at him to be quiet. Lowering his hand slowly, he added in a trace whisper, "So it is you that has been causing all the mischief around the theater. I knew it! I knew it was you; I've seen you lurking about backstage and entering the hidden doors that _I've_ been using for two years now. When Mademoiselle Daae began leaving rehearsals so frequently, I knew it must be you that she was going to see."

From the door, Erik saw the "I told you so" look being flashed his way. Turning his concentration back to the boy, he moved even closer, eliminating the barrier of space to incite authority through fear and unpredictability. Pierre's enthusiasm over his discovery evaporated instantly, unable to draw his gaze from the golden eyes that now held him. He stood for a moment, enveloped unequivocally by being cornered, and then made a dash for the hidden passageway. Erik, who had been ready for it, caught the boy by the arm and spun him around, marveling at how fragile the bone felt under his fingers. He had rarely held a child.

"Please don't hurt me! I promise, I won't tell anyone who you are," he said desperately, pulling futilely against Erik's grip. "I promise. Please let me go."

"Only if you do something for me," Erik replied, kneeling down so that he was at eye level with the boy. Pierre stared at him anxiously. "If I let you go, you must first swear to never reveal what you know of me."

"I swear I won't-," Pierre rushed to assure him, but Erik cut him off.

"Second, I want you to report back to me with anything you learn concerning your employer," he said, and he heard Christine shift apprehensively behind him.

It was a conception he had rendered at no light regard. It appeared that his current state exisisted at an impass, where every darkened hallway concealed a pair of eyes and every sallow face belonged to an enemy. After weeks of inaction, Erik felt the time had come to invest in obtaining information about those associated with the theater - and those in close proximity with Christine. The source of these invading thoughts and happenings was standing just out in the main hall, biding his time. Pierre was the closet link to that source, and if he could penetrate Legenyll's defense through this boy, then he would take the opportunity as handed.

"Erik, are you sure that's a wise decision?" Christine asked, but he chose not to answer.

Pierre stared in confusion for a moment. "You mean...you want me to spy on Monsieur Legenyll?"

Erik nodded, waiting to see how the child would react. A few seconds passed in which the shocking blue depths of Pierre's eyes merely continued to ponder the mysterious figure before him. Then a brilliant smile lit his face, one that Erik had difficulty in not returning, and seemed almost to burst with excitement.

"I can do that. I'm good at staying hidden, and I know nearly every secret passage in the Bowery," he said, and his eagerness was such that Erik felt safe in releasing his hold. Spying on his boss seemed not to hinder him in the least; apparently, having the Opera Ghost spare his life was well worth it. "And I should come here to find you?"

"Yes." Christine sighed with dissent by the door.

An abrupt shout suddenly issued in the hallway. "Rehearsal! Everyone back to their spot!"

"You should go," Erik said, standing up and going over to her.

Lightly, and in regret of what might have been minutes before, he kissed her cheek gently. Her hand rested against his own cheek for a second, as though she too felt the repentance. He knew she disagreed with his decision to use the boy as a pawn, but she spoke no word of it then, only gave him a lingering gaze and departed silently.

"Um...monsieur?"

Erik turned back to Pierre, who seemed suddenly uncomfortable at having been present during their display of affection.

"You may go," Erik said, nodding toward the secret entrance. His voice was stern but temperate as he added, "But remember, speak of me to no one, and be wary while in Legenyll's company. And just know, that I will be watching."

Fascinated and terrified, the boy made his way back to the passageway, never taking his eyes off Erik. He seemed to be waiting for a contradictory attack, as though Erik were merely toying with his mind and meant to kill him anyway. Erik nodded to reassure him, which was returned by a very timid smile, and then Pierre was entering the secret corridor, pulling the cabinet back into place. He paused just before closing it completely.

"Monsieur?"

"Yes?" The boy paused, unsure. "Go ahead. What is it?"

"What is your name?"

Erik smiled warmly at the simple question. Such a simple thing to forget. "Erik."

Yet as Pierre left the room, he could not help but feel a slight twinge of doubt. Christine had taken great care to follow the secret route to his loft whenever she came to visit, so as to misguide the shadow that Legenyll had entailed her with. And at times, Erik believed he had seen eyes progress with his movement while stalking the corners of the Bowery. Somehow, he did not think Pierre was the only person scouting his whereabouts.

He lingered for a time, drumming his fingers in a little serenade across the cabinet door. At length, from curiosity's compulsion, he grasped the handle and glanced inside. Finely woven dresses of various designs hung suspended, as though being worn by a cushioned pillow of air. He lightly thumbed through the subdued and brilliant hues, imagining each as they would drape her delicate form, how they would frame her gracefulness and enhance her eyes. As he began to shut the door, the trim of a certain dress caught his eye, pushed to the dark corner in apparent disregard. Moving through a barrier of fabric, he was able to reveal it, and immediately understood why it had attracted his attention. It was the wedding dress he had made, so many years ago in that pit below the sun's esteem.

She had kept it. The dress she had sailed off in, with which she had borne away his fervor and his capacity to view the world in artistic shades of beauty, be it all but illusion and romanticism. Yet with it she had also planted seeds of redemption, and he had spent six tedious years fostering them to grow. And he knew she saw that those seeds had taken root and formed a better man, a man with regret and mistakes, but ultimately a man with a heart to match his intellect.

_And somehow, someway, that need for redemption, for absolution, has led me here...back to her_, he thought musingly. He had spent so many hours in solitaire, encased inside the top floor of his empty warehouse, wondering if becoming a part of Christine's life again was fair to her; if deeds of murder and betrayal could be forgiven enough to let love back in. Yet she had smiled and laughed with him - she had been but a breath away from his lips.

_Perhaps I've been redeemed._

* * *

A/N: I forgot to say thanks to those who reviewed my last chapter, so here it is - Thank You! 


	11. Tokens and Treaties

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. The closest I've gotten is a velvety cape with cheap silver lining...

A/N: Well, here it is, and earlier than last time. Yeah! Anywho, thanks for the supporting reviews - I'm still aglow - and I hope you'll review this one just as adamantly. One note; this chapter contains the "f" word, in case some are opposed, so just giving a heads-up. Other than that, read and enjoy.

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Chapter 11: Tokens and Treaties

The city was an iridescent marvel in the sunlight, simmering in dull colors that gleamed like gothic jewels. The ocean was a blue mist of imprecise measure, melting out of parallel with the lighter shade of the sky. From their vantage point in the belfry of the old church, Christine could follow the chimney sweeps and rough-tiled roofs to that vague line. The sun slipped behind a strand of clouds for a moment, obscuring it from view, and the image made her think of Erik. An ignited genius smothered by external forces. Yet she knew that eventually the clouds would shift, and that the sun would still be there to yield its warmth again. She had seen Erik unrestrained more and more over the past few weeks, tiny luminosities parting through the clouds, and she smiled softly to herself to think of him in such a way.

"Is something amusing?"

"No. Just a pleasant thought I was having," she answered as he came to stand by her on the balcony.

"About tonight?" he asked, and she shook her head, the smile disappearing gradually from her face. She felt his concerned gaze. "Are you nervous?"

"Yes, and no," she replied, sighing a little bit at her perplexity. "I have a feeling that the performance will be wonderful, and I think I'll do well-"

"I've never known you to do otherwise," he interjected, and she gave him a stern look. He inclined his head slightly. "Sorry. Please continue."

"I'm just worried about how well I'll seem to a certain few," she said. She looked up at him and saw the comprehension dawn.

"Ah. The investors from the Park Theater," he surmised, and she nodded. He gave her an indulgent smile, as though she had slipped back into childish apprehensions. "Truly, I don't know why you didn't audition there first. I've no doubt that you would have been excepted immediately and without question."

"Erik, you have no doubts about me whatsoever," Christine responded, and she noted dually the slight irritation in her own voice. Perhaps she was more anxious towards the performance tonight than she had deemed. "I've no idea what qualities in a singer these gentlemen are looking for. The only reason you believe in me so adamantly is because..."

When she faltered, he finished quietly, "Because I love you."

He wore a resigned expression of fact, for she knew he had lived with his love for her as though it were habitual, unquestionable as sunsets or storms or animal instinct. Remorse filled her at his distant regard, knowing she had been the cause for so much of his aimlessness and alienation. She had made so many mistakes, and left so many behind in them, Erik being the most devastating consequence. Putting Raoul through a marriage that could never sustain, trying to love and, in so doing, creating a falsity of their friendship. Believing in dreams to the point of naive inhibition, outdistancing herself in grief and hurting the only one who had been able to bring her back from an utter precipice.

A tear slid down her cheek. She made to wipe it away and instead felt Erik's hand already there, catching it on his fingertip.

"I'm so sorry, Erik," she whispered, too overcome for a moment to speak any louder. "I didn't mean to make so many wrong choices. I just don't want to repeat the sins of my past. Can you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"More than you know," he answered quietly, and she realized how ignorant it had been to ask. Yet she knew he was not aggravated by her confusion, and that his perception of her was only sympathetic. He only wanted to be there for her, whether any romance developed between them or not.

_Why couldn't it have been like this six years ago?_ she thought with bitterness. His gaze was not obsessive or manipulating anymore, and this Erik was the man she had longed to see in that subterranean cavern. _If he had been like _this_, then we could have..._

She let the thought end there, not wanting to breech such a painful topic. She stared out into the mystifying blue, watching the clouds and thinking of Erik as an intellectual sun trapped behind them. She knew he was worried for her anxiety, worried always as to her well being and negligent when it came to his own. She felt comforted by this unexpected recognition., letting it enfold around her. He would always be there for her, concerned for her, making her laugh and holding her when she cried, singing sweet melodies of brilliant design when she needed them most. Melodies he probably wrote for her intentionally. Always. It was the safest she had ever felt, knowing he would be there to watch over her, protect her.

_Just like a guardian angel_, she thought with wonder, and looked up into his patient eyes.

"Erik, I ...," she began, and then hesitated. She bit down on her lower lip, not knowing how to proceed. What if she hurt him again?

She suddenly felt the warm pressure of his hand. He took her right in both of his own, curling her fingers into a loose fist around what he had given to her. He pulled away, and for a moment she was scared, feeling the object at her fingertips and wondering if she had enough courage to look down. She opened her fist. The ring lay in the palm of her hand, glinting innocently with the three hearts it held deep inside.

"Erik-"

"I don't need anything in return," he said, and she looked up, feeling slightly ashamed that he would have to reassure her. "I just wanted you to know that my feelings for you have not changed. That ring holds so much more than broken relationships, but it's always belonged to you." He traced a finger lovingly along her cheek, and she shivered before he pulled back, looking suddenly unsure of himself. "Quit doubting yourself. You'll be perfect tonight, and afterwards you and I will go to the masque together, just as you asked me to. I have faith in you, Christine, and I don't place such a thing lightly."

"Neither do I," she replied, so soft from daring to say anything at all. At his bewildered expression, she smiled and whispered, "I faith in you too, Erik."

She leaned forward on tiptoe and kissed him. It was light, hardly a brush of skin over skin, a single moment in which they shared so little physically but so much in trust. She denied herself the kiss she really wanted, to fall further into it and capture that passion lurking dangerously close to the surface. It was enough just to feel the faintest tingle of his lips against hers before drawing away, sealing a promise in it that she was growing stronger, more mature, and that someday soon they would find their way again. His stunned appearance made her smile, a concealed giggle hiding behind it, and he smiled tentatively in return.

She wrapped her arms around his waste and they stared out into the blue for a time, silent and content.

* * *

He stood secluded in the folds of darkness in the center exit, disregarding previous rumors of it being watched, too entranced by what was unfurling on stage to be concerned with much else. Christine was a vision, so enticing to the eye as to be nearly unreal. All the lights were bent upon her singular form, everything in the theater diminished to insignificance by her presence. He imagined a backdrop colored in a scenic forest, a glimmering moon swung high above a pair of dazzling white horses. Her dress bloomed in extravagance of its setting, silver stars caught in her hair. She was young and nervous, but her spirit could not be denied. There would be a standing ovation and nothing less.

It took a moment for the memory to fade, for the opening nights in Paris and the grand foyer of the Populaire to recede back to the city of New York in the Bowery Theater. As he watched her, she glanced down into the shadows and met his eyes, and broad smile appeared on her face. He could still feel the lingering sensation of those lips resting on his, and when he touched his bottom lip in something of a stupor, he found his own smile waiting there.

At the end of her aria, Christine slipped behind the curtains as the applause trailed behind her like a garland of sound. She gave a fleeting look in his direction and then she was gone, yet the play still had one act left to perform. He found it somewhat of a bland tale; _La Chambre Rouge_; the Red Room, a room of passion and desire and consequences; a love affair with a tragic ending, which seemed to be the only subject of choice in theater these days. But with Christine at the forefront, the story became epic and the music transcendent, spinning a wretched web that entranced and appalled, moved and shocked. He found himself as breathless to see the ending as his first rendition of _Faust_.

No sooner had Christine left the stage when Erik heard the patter of hurried footsteps behind him. Bracing himself, he took to the shadows immediately, waiting for the intruder to come within range. When a thin, undersized profile could be distinguished, Erik realized who it must be and let the tension dissipate from his clenched muscles. He stepped out in front of the boy and heard a small gasp in the darkness in front of him.

"What is it, Pierre?" he asked, a slight note of harshness in his tone. He was enjoying himself and did not wish to be disturbed.

"Monsieur Erik," the boy whispered, glancing over his shoulder fretfully. "It's Monsieur Legenyll...he knows you're here!"

"Is he sending guards?" Erik asked, now suddenly alert for the sound of more approaching footsteps.

"No, I don't think so," Pierre replied, and then Erik felt the smallest hand against his arm. "But he still could! You have to leave now, before-"

A dim silhouette had appeared near the far end of the corridor, framed only by a lean flicker of light from the lobby. Not wanting to put Pierre in a dangerous position, he grabbed the boy by the arm and moved him off to the side, where the seclusion of the shadows hid him entirely. With a whisper to remain silent, Erik turned to face the looming figure. It was one man, unaccompanied, and as the tapping of expensive footfalls reached his ears, Erik knew the manager himself had come to speak with him privately, a daring feat for a man who knew little of his enemy and nothing of his genius. He waited patiently until Legenyll was only a few feet from him, a knot of uncertainty forming when the man before him did not even blink at the mask he wore.

"So you're the one who's been fucking with my theater," the man said calmy. Erik made no move to reply, and so he continued, speaking with a casual air that seemed menacing in such a serene setting. "You've been hovering around here for months now, ever since that night when you destroyed _my _prop closet with _my _whiskey. Tampering with theater equipment, upsetting the chorus girls and the musicians in the orchestra pit...stalking my actors."

"If you're referring to Mademoiselle Daae, we are old friends," Erik replied, adding a hint of venom to his voice. "And I am not _stalking _her."

"Your actions say otherwise." He walked forward, boldly, until he stood next to Erik just within the boundaries of the exit before it entered the main hall. The palest glow of the stage lights fell on his stern face, making the gray of his eyes a sinister hue. He wore a cocky, knowing smile. "It seems you live up to your name quite well. The Opera Ghost? Indeed. The eeriness of a masked face in the shadows...but tell me, what kind of a man wears a mask at all times?"

A cold sensation came over him, filled with apprehension of what this man might know about him. "I don't wear a mask all the time; just when I happen to be messing in the affairs of a certain manager and his theater. Though, the theater is not your most thriving business, is it monsieur?" At the suspicious gleam in Legenyll's eye, Erik produced a brash smile of his own. "But you see, when I slip off _my _mask, Monsieur Legenyll, people tend to notice."

"They seem to notice you with or without it," Legenyll replied, and Erik noted with some satisfaction that the haughty lilt in his voice had disappeared. Yet he waited doubtfully at the last statement. Legenyll's smile grew more cynical. "I mean, one isn't usually tracked down and beaten for taking a stroll through New York. Perhaps in Paris, but I've never been there, so I wouldn't know. How are you fairing these days?"

"What are you talking about?" Erik asked, but a chilling dread had set in, and with it he feared he already knew the answer.

"Well, it was actually meant for the Vicomte de Chagny, but for some reason the fop decided to take a different route that particular evening." Legenyll twiddled his thumbs, seemingly interested in the play before them and unconcerned with their little chat. Erik's breathing had slowed. "In all honesty, it worked out even better than I had hoped. I was still able to get rid of that annoying youth, and in the process gained a deeper perspective of my competition."

"Competition?" The man turned to him finally, looking at him as though he were an insect.

"For Mademoiselle Daae."

It had been him. Those many weeks ago, when Erik had been confronted on his way to visit Christine, the men who had ambushed him had been put there deliberately. He remembered thinking of one as vaguely familiar and he now knew why: it had been one of Legenyll's men, whom he had seen prowling about the theater on some occasion or another. And the man had been abashed at Erik's presence...as though he had been waiting for someone else. His injuries and their contributors had been preplanned, though it had been intended for Raoul, not himself. A revelation of deceit and morbid objectives from a man willing to act on them. It was the last remark that chilled him more than anything; _For Mademoiselle Daae._

"I don't know what morose fascination you have concerning Christine, but you should know she is well protected." He spoke quietly, almost gently, and for the first time he saw the barriers fall in Legenyll's defense. The fear and uncertainty were acute. "And I am fairing well from my injuries. It's not the first time I've been, to say it delicately, _dealt _with. My body has learned to adapt to harsh environments."

Gaining back some composure, Legenyll said, "Well, in being _dealt _with, I can arrange such an encounter again if I wish."

"I daresay you can," Erik replied, and bit back a smile at Legenyll's deepening unease. "But I'm afraid by the end of it you'll be seeking to fill some empty positions."

A moment's pause. Legenyll seemed to be debating his circumstances, and sizing up the individual before him. With a scrutinizing glare, he asked "Will you be continuing with your illustrious pranks, Monsieur-?"

"Erik. And indeed I will," he answered. With precise intimidation and a calculated poise, he took a step closer. Legenyll eyed him cautiously. "But I'm sure we can reach a more hospitable agreement."

Legenyll raised an eyebrow but did not respond, so Erik continued. "If you'll dispense with the tail you've put to Christine's every move, then I will stop with my..." He smiled mischievously, waving his hand loftily. "...roguish pastimes."

The music was a pervading shield between the two. Erik recognized it as the crescendo to the last duet, and even as Christine's entrance commenced on stage, his eyes never wavered from the inscrutable man next to him. There was a wicked incongruity behind the facade of the Bowery manager, hidden agendas and a macabre taste for violence and espionage. His fixation on Christine was the most disquieting thing of all, and for a moment Erik was overcome by a dividing sense of the past. No doubt this was the exact same trepidation Raoul had experienced upon discovering the existence of the phantom of the opera, and his mania for the one he loved. Everything revolves, and Erik was no stranger to the customs of haunting.

"It seems we have a mutual advantage to procure," Legenyll said, inclining his head in a gesture of agreement. "I believe we've reached a stalemate for the time being. No more vandalizing of my theater, and Christine will be the only one with knowledge as to her whereabouts."

"A treaty it is then," Erik agreed, and tilted his own head. There was a treachery looming in the lines of Legenyll's brow, pondering manipulation in the eyes and deceit in his posture. It was a stare Erik had come to recognize as dark curiosity, but it was not for his sake that the look, that the _man_, held such anxiety. "And let that be the end of your pursuit in matters concerning Christine. _You _are the man responsible for stalking in this case, and it damn well better end here."

Legenyll made to reply, but Erik silenced him. "Goodnight monsieur."

With a look of utter contempt, the manager turned on his heel and began walking to the foyer. A thunderous applause rose to the ear as his form receded, the curtains falling in thick folds of velvet and success. Erik sighed, a combination of missed experiences and troubling insights weighing heavily on his mind. He resolved then and there to speak no word of the incident to Christine; it was her night, and he would not have it shrouded in animosity. They would dance and enjoy one another's company, and he would be at her arm for all the world to see while praise was rendered at her dazzling performance. He would _be _there, and it was he this time who would kiss her in front of a grand entourage with an engagement ring passed to his beloved. It would be him this time.

Just before Legenyll disappeared to the lobby, he turned back towards Erik, only an obscured form in the darkness.

"I'll see you at the masque."

When he was gone, Pierre emerged slowly from his hideaway. Hesitantly he came to stand by Erik, who waited patiently for the curtain call. He fidgeted as the words came cautiously, still dumbfounded as to what had transgressed between the two men just mere inches from his concealed spot. He rested a hand against Erik's arm, marveling at the muscle there and fearful of the damage it could cause. When Erik looked down at the boy, Pierre gulped as that permeating, golden stare pierced him to the quick. Yet he kept his unease at bay and spoke his mind nonetheless.

"Monsieur, I don't think you should go to the dance," he whispered, tugging ever so gently at the man's cloak. "I know Monsieur Legenyll and...and he always stands by what he says, threats most of all. He might be planning something. I think you should leave the Bowery."

Erik looked to the stage, where Christine was sweeping a bow as roses fell before her feet. When their eyes met, she smiled and took a deep breath, feeling the pride and fondness from the figure at the center exit.

"I'll be there."

* * *

A/N: So Legenyll's got it out for Erik, spying on him, threatening him. What will ensue at the masque, if anything? Tell me what you thought! 


	12. Release

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. I own a few characters that I made up for this story, and who won't be seen again after it's finished. Erik will live on.

A/N: Thanks one and all, to some new reviewers and to my steady readers. There were some accurate guesses as to what will happen in this chapter, too. I hope you enjoy it, as I've had this scene in my head since I began writing the story. Enjoy, and Please (with a capital) review! For my health, you see...

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Chapter 12: Release

The foyer had been transformed into a spectacular vista, with an ivory tint descending from gold spun chandeliers and a polished floor made of dappled marble. The windows reached the ceiling at an extraordinary length, fragmented sections between granite columns filled with shadow and stars. A plush burgundy rug encircled the dance floor, with innate blue banners hung at every entrance and ribbons streaming from the rails of the balconies overseeing the hall. Masses of colors converged into a patchwork of lavish gowns and diamond studded collars, with costumes of baffling design to accompany a room filled with false identity.

To every face there joined a mask, and beneath some there lay a hideousness that Erik could never rival.

Christine marveled at him in his attire; a deep forest green coat with lapels of a lighter shade, embedded with intricate velvet patterns and ruffled lace beneath a silk vest. Even his mask was feat of his appearance, constructed of suede and rimmed in dyed swatches of fabric, all multihued colors of that same green around the edges. Christine's dress was a depthless sea green that matched in form and framework, as Erik had designed his own outfit from a basis of hers. When she had dressed in her room after the performance, Erik had gone in and dressed after her, revealing himself in the doorway and taking great pride in his stitching.

He had then presented a second mask of smaller dimensions, a very replica of his own, and Christine had taken it with an awed breathlessness.

When she had put it on, it felt like a world had crumbled between them, and she felt for the first time in her life the sensation of being hidden, slightly separated from all else around her. For a moment she had almost ripped it off, knowing that she could do so and become a part of everything again, everything she wanted and needed, and knowing at the same time that Erik could not. He could never take it off, even when he did.

She had taken his arm with such a tender affection that when she had looked up, there was comprehension in his eyes, and she knew he understood. He smiled softly down at her, for though the realization was terrifying and bitter, she now shared with him the deepest burden he carried. They understood _each other_, which no amount of torment and betrayal in Paris had been able to do.

It was with this new intimacy that they swung out onto the dance floor amidst the other couples, both brazen and daring in their identical masks. She felt his hand on the small of her back, leading her into his strange gracefulness until she was somehow part of it. It was wonderful to become a rhythmic motion with him as the music swayed them both, caught up in light and sound with Erik looking like a fairy tale hero. As he took her arm and twirled her neatly, pulling her back to his side and spinning them both across the dance floor, she laughed with the pure ecstasy of it. He laughed as well, a debonair courting his lady, and with it she realized that this was the best night of her life.

"Do you know what all this reminds me of?" she asked, admiring the feel of her hand on his shoulder.

"Hopefully not Raoul," he said with some contempt, and she laughed outright, shaking her head.

"No. It reminds of that story Cinderella," she replied, following easily as he twirled her out from him, still holding one of her hands, and then drawing her back. "My father use to read it to me when I was little, when everything in my world was still fairy tales and angels. Have you ever heard of it?"

"Dimly," he said, dipping her down gently. "I don't remember much of it. My mother never read to me. What part does this remind you of?"

"Well, near the end, there's a grand ball at the royal palace," she said to him, and felt a smile beginning to start. "The prince's father is looking for a bride to wed his son, and so he holds a dance to find a maiden to marry him off to. Well, Cinderella, who has always lived as a poor scullery maid in her stepmother's home, has made her own dress and comes to the ball. And when she enters at the top of the stairs, everyone falls quiet in awe of her, including the prince, who instantly wants to dance with her. " She paused shyly for a moment, feeling the blush in her cheeks. "I feel like Cinderella, dancing with the prince."

He smiled so warmly at her that she felt some of the strength leave her legs. "Except for the fact that you don't need the top of a staircase for people to notice you."

With intentional deliberation, he motioned artlessly with his eyes towards the space around them. It was only then that Christine realized they were the only couple on the dance floor. She knew instinctively that it was Erik's alluring presence that had captured every mind and held it rapt, subconsciously pushing them back to be spellbound at the sideline. A sphere of ever swirling colors had enclosed them right at the center, like the lovely showpiece of a delicate music box. She felt his contentment through the touch of their hands, knowing that so much attention was focused on him, and in a way which marked him as an equal.

"I'm not the one they're looking at," she replied candidly.

"No, that would be me," he said, and before she could reply, he spun her out again.

In a final rush of movement, they finished their dance and bowed to enthusiastic applause echoing throughout the ballroom. When she straightened, she immediately felt his hand at her waist, leading her into another rhythm as the floor around them was swept up under petticoats and high polished shoes. It was so easy just to follow and forget, letting the effortlessness of his own grace become hers in imitation. The dancers all around were no more than simple blurs, the only point of concentration being the eyes in front of her.

"You know, I've always imagined this," he said suddenly, though very faint. His hand twitched ever so lightly. "To escort you, as we are now...and to dance with you. It's something that, as I have learned many times in my years, surpasses what can be envisioned."

"Yes," she agreed wistfully, and at her tone he looked nearly stricken. She smiled, not wanting to spoil this night for him. "I just mean that...I know what it's like to live in a dream. But I'm glad that this time when you awoke, Erik, for once I was able to be there."

It was her turn to motion wordlessly with her eyes. He followed, and she saw the abrupt change in his manner. For a moment she felt frightened, seeing how deeply affected he had been and wondering if she had done yet another harmful deed. They stopped in the middle of the dance floor, the hall moving in orbit around them as they faltered into a stationary axis. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out to the tiny ring resting on her now ungloved finger, gleaming brightly as the warm tenor of his skin hovered mere inches above it. She rested her other hand against his cheek as he glanced up at her, unbelieving and with so many questions there on the surface. She nodded to give him courage.

"Christine, you wore the -," he began, and then his arms left her as the mask fell from his face.

"I'm terribly sorry," the man apologized, letting go of his partner to face the gentleman who he had bumped into. "I didn't mean-"

The words died without resonance, as well as the steady serenade of music and the animation of the hall. It was a morose interjection of silence, all bent upon a single summit, and existing only in a space between two moments. It was exactly the way she remembered, but lit to new intensities from the setting; the crumpled, twisted skin, with its inflamed appearance, the cheekbone protruding slightly from the bowed eyelid and the patched flesh that extended far past the hairline. Yet a thin, jagged scar now ran down the length of his cheek, and she realized it was from the wound he had received the night Raoul had left. The wound he had not let her tend to, where the blood had dripped from beneath the mask in such morbid symbolism.

Yet the eyes, the fair golden complex of his eyes, were the most deformed thing of all. They were unseeing, turned inward and completely lifeless.

He backed up slowly, cautiously, glancing around as he receded from the scene of so many lights and interrupted sounds. The crowd parted as though pushed by an invisible hand, pulling away in their panic and lack of integrity. All eyes rested on the misshapen face, the elegant garb and the striking ethereal form not enough to dislodge the horror and disgust. With a last despairing look, which she took to mean goodbye, he turned and fled.

"My God," a voice whispered in her ear, and she saw Legenyll before her, lifting the delicately woven mask from the floor. His eyes were on her, shocked and deeply shaken. "I've never seen anything like that. My God."

As hushed and fearful murmuring began to break out, she snatched the mask from the manager's limp grasp and proceeded toward the door. She had to catch Erik before...before something happened, something irreparable. She felt a hand at her arm, restraining her and pulling her back towards the web of deceit that entranced every other mask but the one in her hand. She turned fully to Legenyll, who was wearing an incredulous expression across his narrowed, sharp lined features.

"Surely you can't be thinking of going after that..._thing_," he nearly gasped, and for an answer she slapped him across the face.

He let go immediately, his eyes widening in astonishment, and she turned away from them all towards the door to the outside world, where hopefully she would be able to breath. To breath, and to find Erik in time. And she knew exactly where he would go first.

* * *

The floor was littered with sham and facade, all the meager trophies of his deception to dreaming. He was a charlatan of his own esteem and self rendered consequences, everything in this fraud of a home now pointless, a joke, a weak interpretation of a life of pretense. So much brilliance had become rubbish, lying about only to paper the floor with the most elaborate melodies and drawings, the beautiful and native treasures of far off lands becoming minimal, unadorned trinkets. It all hung cheap and petty, the room scattered with slivers of prominence until it was just a hapless mess. Through the many chests and trunks filled with these eluding things, he had finally found what lay at the bottom, what was always underneath when all else was removed.

He picked up the mask, sliding a hand over it almost lovingly before placing it over his face.

He stood awkwardly, shaking uncontrollably from so many emotions rocking his system. The bitter metallic of adrenaline, laced with shock and the all too familiar rage creeping up every nerve that could still function, was a descending cloud that blanketed his sense and reason. He bit down on his lip, fearing madness, and worse, understanding, clenching his fists so hard that the nail dug into his palm. The blood was warm but the cuts were cold, inducing no pain and producing no solution. She had worn the ring. He kept pacing, stopping, not knowing what he meant to do, or wondering if truly, there was nothing else left to do. She had worn the ring. He smashed his fist through the first window he came to, the shards ripping the flesh of the knuckles, splitting open the back of his hand.

"Erik!"

She stood in the doorway, breathless and frightened and utterly gone from him. She still wore the mask he had made for her, his own held in the hand bearing the ring. She stepped in quickly, coming towards him but halting with adequate space left between them. He couldn't speak or move, a terrible indifference seizing him to the point of giving up. He wondered vaguely in the reprimanding part of his mind if she had not come only to give him back his mask, to take pity on him again at a renewed dread. He wondered if she would give back the ring.

"Erik, please, don't let them do this to you," she whispered, her voice so fearful that he barely withheld from embracing her, to comfort her. She was staring with tears in her eyes, gleaming near the jaded beads of the mask, gazing at his shattered hands.

"You followed me," he said lamely, and the sound of his voice, so bland and unnatural, was worse even than the feelings surging through him.

"Yes, but none followed me. I made sure." She stepped forward a pace or two, so shy from him now, so changed from what they had built for the past two months. He wanted to scream. "I knew you'd come here first, if only to retrieve...another mask."

He laughed, a horrid and diminishing sound that butchered his lovely tenor. He saw her flinch. "Yes, another mask. I lost count some time ago as to how many I've had, how many I've worn and discarded from use or apathy. But really, my dear, they're all the same mask. Black or white...or green, whether worn out to a grand ball or around the wasted floor of a crumbling building. They all serve the same purpose."

She stepped over the shards and ruins of his possessions, laying a hand on his shoulder. He brushed it away quickly, fearing that his resolve would break and he would latch onto that simple touch. He would consume it, bury in a crypt of incipient intentions and destroy its sincerity in a maddening uncertainty. She stepped forward again, and he crossed the room, actually grunting in a feral mark of warning like an enraged animal.

"Why does your curiosity compel such a terrible fascination?" he asked cruelly, but did not turn for fear of the hurt in her eyes. "Why must you always persist when I need it the least? I'm in pain, and I simply want to be left alone. Can't you see I only want to be left alone?"

"If I leave now, so might you. But you wouldn't come back," she replied softly, and he cringed at her words. They were so true, and yet it angered him that she could not see that the truth was too twisted to speak of now. The last of what she said stung him to near physical agony. "I don't want to lose you again, Erik."

"Perhaps you already have," he muttered.

"Don't slip back into their hold," she said desperately, and he turned as she came up to him, frightened worse than ever. "Those people, those shells parading around without empathy or remorse, can't judge what they don't understand. It doesn't matter-"

"Doesn't matter?" he whispered back, but with fury instead of fear. "A face that needs a mask doesn't matter? Ceases sound, happiness, entices revulsion. Were you not there, standing inches from it, to come now and tell me it doesn't matter?" She reached out to him, but in complete chaos somewhere, he pulled away and shouted, "You were there! Don't come to me with feeble wishes and say it doesn't matter! You hold a damnation in your hand!"

"What can you possibly think of me?" she suddenly asked, and the harsh quality of her voice, a tone he had never heard, startled him. "Naive, simple minded, a child? Did you think I had forgotten what lay under this?" She brandished the mask at him, letting it fall to the floor at his feet. Pointing at it, she cried, "Do you really think so little of me to believe it was _that _which I fell in love with?"

His head was spinning. Her words felt embedded in his mind, echoing verdantly with charm and abhorrence. He pressed his hands to his temples, where the lexis pounded in sync with his pulse. He closed his eyes and saw Christine above him, the subdued candlelight and the reflections of the lake casting shadows across her flawless skin and billowing nightdress. He saw the mask held in her raised hand, the shock and revulsion in her eyes sending a bolt of absolute misery to his very core. And pity. Pity for the fallen angel and his fate but absolved from love by the demand for it. Love, but of what kind? How deep? To save his life in the cemetery only to end it later...

For the angel, or for the man?

It was with staggering clarity that he could suddenly feel every fiber of the mask, the full weight, oppressive to an unbearable fault. He was alien to it, the softened leather slowly suffocating him, and the upending sensation was so terrifying that he ripped it from his face, forcing it from him as though it were poison. He grabbed Christine roughly by the shoulders, staring down determinedly into her eyes while recoiling inwardly from the open air. She was shivering in his hands, but she did not try to pull away. For some strange reason, he kept hearing the phantom sounds of the chandelier crashing to the stage.

"Christine, look at this, _feel _this," he said drastically, grabbing the left hand with the ring on it and placing it to his malformed skin. It lay there lifeless, but he relished the warmth bitterly. "Do you love it? There is no mask between us now, Christine, and you have me, every bit of me before you. Let your hand take in what your eyes may not want to see, and tell me if you love it. If you even can."

Gently, her lips trembling, she shook her head. A sigh escaped him, and he felt the burning constriction arise in his throat, clogged with tears and gruesome relief. An answer of condemning magnitude, but an answer at last. She had laughed with him, visited him, sang with him. Danced with him. She had been at his side of her own free will and had even kissed him, barely in the fidelity of the sunlight but still a kiss. She didn't love him, but God, how he loved her for trying.

Yet even as he grieved, he felt her other hand at his left cheek, cupping his face tenderly. He saw teardrops cascading below the bottom rim of her mask, for she had not removed it and made no move to do so. She was still shaking her head, but now he saw that it was in some grief of her own, welling up inside her as devastating as the tide in its anger. She leaned forward and trailed kisses down his damaged cheek, sending shudders up his spine. She rested her head briefly against his distorted skin, and he closed his eyes, marveling at how smooth she felt against him.

"Erik." She whispered his name in his ear. "You were never the one wearing the mask."

She turned her head and kissed him deeply, wrapping her arms around his neck. It was passionate and intense, her lips yielding to his own as he pressed into it, savoring the taste of second chances. It was so much sweeter than the first; that had been a kiss of compliance, of pity, and he had been both blessed and cursed in the same instant to live with it and remember, haunting him until the day of his death. It reeled his senses and confounded his mind as he placed his hands to her face, and felt her mask.

As he lightly pulled away, he slipped his hand around and undid the tie, lifting it from her face so he could see her. She had never been more beautiful to him than in moments of triumph, and she was glowing with it now, tears hanging in her eyelashes like indefinite stars. She took his hands and led him to the bed, where they lay down together. It was perfect chastity in the grips of tainted innocence, an island of comfort as darkness pressed in hungrily at the windows, keening for night and engulfment. She kissed him again as he held her, lacing his hands through the texture of her dark curls, her head resting against his shoulder.She lay to his right, her breath fluttering over the exposed skin like the softest brush of a wing.

He was struck by a wave of exhaustion as he lay there in her arms, his eyelids succumbing easily to fatigue as his mind relaxed. He felt as though he had just returned from battle, the muscles cooling down from their excursions, and the inner peace of resolve that sometimes accompanies victory blanketing his thoughts. He put his forehead to hers, the smile disappearing gradually as he fell into a sound sleep. For once, he dreamed of nothing.

* * *

A/N: I know; long chapter. Kissing him with a mask of her own on...I've always wanted to write that for some reason. I liked the idea, and I hope you did as well. You know the drill. Push the button! Speak your mind. Thanks! 


	13. A Quiet Mending

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. If I had a nickel for every time I've stated this...I would only have about sixty five cents...

A/N: Sorry about the long wait! I was caught up by 'Deathly Hallows', which my fellow Harry Potter fans can understand. I hope others who _don't _read Harry Potter can understand anyway. Have I told you guys how much you make my day, by the way? I loved the reviews for the last chapter! Thanks. I hope you enjoy this chapter, as you've waited long enough for it. Cheers!

* * *

Chapter 13: A Quiet Mending

Her first thought upon waking was not really a thought at all, but simply a warm contentment that filled her mind as she lay absorbed in it. The soft golden rays that glinted innocuously off the faded wood of the ceiling seemed to reign down over her, seeping into the blankets and wrapping itself tangibly around her slim frame. She outstretched her hands to the edge of the coverlet, sighing comfortably as her muscles worked and the tension dissipated. Her fingers swept over empty sheets that swirled like soft ripples around her palms, the fabric cold without the presence of recent body heat. A vague hollowness overcame her relaxed features as she realized why the vacant space beside her was somewhat troubling, and a prominent blush spread across her cheeks as she remembered the passionate kiss she had bestowed, of drifting off into sleep while laying next to another man.

Although nothing had happened, it was still unladylike behavior to show such affection, and with such fervor. Her blush deepened until she could feel it radiating from her face, but there was no regret in her actions whatsoever. Erik was a complete gentleman in regards to her, and her trust had never wavered as she comforted him with her embrace and acceptance. He had been nearly shattered, curved inward with the weight of sudden exposure and shame, and she knew it had rent an emotional wound in him to be denied the right to reveal himself willingly to her, when he had deemed himself ready. She had never felt such keen hatred in her youth as she had in the stillness of that room, with so many wicked minds staring down in judgment at what they could never understand.

_Of course, I once could not understand myself_, her mind whispered, and with a pang of guilt she let her rising anger abate. _Perhaps I still do not understand; it would be foolish to assume that I knew every facet of his mind. Yet maybe it's that I understand _better_ which gives me courage now._

With that thought, she rose from the bed, her dress now wrinkled and bunched in a lopsided fashion. The floor was still littered with fragments and slivers, only objects now, flashing with simplicity in the daylight without the colossal rage that had put them there. Her own mask lay discarded in the midst, beautifully crafted and elegantly woven, and now so hideous to her that she knew she would never wear it again. She scanned about for the its companion, the one she had brought from the masque like a horrid weight in her little hand, but it was no longer there. In turn, she began to look for the man himself, and down the far length of the abandoned warehouse she saw him, resting in the last windowsill with his back to her. She swallowed dryly and moved forward.

Shafts of light corresponded with breaks of shadow between the windows, dividing the floor into shades of gold and gray. She stepped nimbly so as not to disturb him, but she knew he had likely realized her presence the moment she rustled out of bed. He did not move as she came to stand at his shoulder, his attention fixed at some distant point outside the walls of his makeshift loft. She could discern that he wore no mask on his face, yet her breathing felt oddly constricted in pity as she looked down at the ledge in front of him. It was covered in different masks of shape and design; the porcelain half mask, one of black silk, the skeleton's face from the masquerade in Paris, and even the one from the night before, shimmering in a greenish haze. They were thrown out before him like pieces of a vague memory, patches in the fabric of his remembering to hide the horrors that he wanted to forget.

She stepped up beside him and looked down into his face, only to give out a small gasp of wonder.

She had never seen Erik completely immersed in the sunlight before. Near, but never touching. For a moment she saw him as he would have been, had fate not provided him with such a terrible path. She saw a face unmarred, smooth and unscathed and whole, with a hairline that swept like a graceful arch behind the ear and a profile that spoke of nobility and intelligence. Even deeper she saw a calm reserve in him, a spirit without battle scars, living peaceably inside its own talent of music and architecture, alive only for the magic it could create and not the terror it could inflict. Yet it quickly faded back to Erik, his inflamed and distorted skin in full view with the light pouring over it. Confusion and a strange, delirious relief settled on her as she realized that it was _this _Erik that she wanted, and that she had briefly been seized by fear in her vision at the prospect of losing the one she knew.

_Without it, would he have ever been so brilliant? Would his voice have been so godlike, or his music so divine? Would he have ever been my Angel of Music, even for the lie that gave me hope to live on?_

The whirlwind of her thoughts dissipated as he looked up at her, the golden hue of his eyes dulled greatly by the sunlight around him. Her gasp had startled him out of his reverie, and she saw the panic rise immediately to the surface. Thinking she had gasped at the sight of his warped features, he reached for one of the masks lying in front of him. She sat down quickly on the sill opposite from him, reaching out to grab the hand that sought cover for his deformity, and the unjustly founded disgrace that plagued him. The tension was substantial, and for some time they only stared at each other quietly, neither sure of how to proceed.

Eventually, he leaned back against the frame, his hand slipping through her grip with a soft rasp of skin against skin. He surveyed her calmly, though it was apparent he was shaken by his own inattentiveness and the revealed state in which he had been found. An overwhelming desire for music welled up inside her, yearning for a release that only the near breakable sound of a violin or the supple delicacy of a human voice could provide. _His _voice. Yet she felt that the music he would create for this same moment would be devised at the organ, which would shatter her with its power to instill regret and longing in its cavernous notes. Somehow a part of her, the part that had put aside fairy tales and angelic dreams, understood that neither one of them could seek refuge in music any longer without destroying its allure, its purpose. It would be like sacrilege against something holy.

He must have understood as well, for he began, very quietly, "My mother was the first to ever suggest the need of a mask, for something to shield her shame and humiliation. I didn't realize for some time the distress my face could cause, since my father loved me regardless, and he never permitted me to leave the house for others to persecute openly. I lived quietly in the house, trying to make amends with my mother and always confused when she met my attempts with disgust, constantly reminding me to keep the mask in place, to never set it aside, even for a moment."

Christine felt as though she had forgotten to breath, concentrating so intently on every word he uttered that she feared the slightest noise might break the spell. He had told her over their past few months together of his travels and creations, of his spiral into music and seclusion, which had ultimately led to the steady decline of his presence in the world above ground. He had never once spoken of his childhood though, and Christine had never asked for fear that she might stir some terrible beast of past sorrows. He no longer held her gaze, but stared down at the huddled masks and fingered them gently.

"My father would walk with me down the streets at night, when everyone else had gone to bed, and sometimes, when my mother was away at the market, he would sneek me out to the woods at midday and we would sit under the sun in an open glade in the trees, and he would sing to me. He had a simple voice, but it was soothing and clear, and I would try to match his songs to the keys on my mother's piano when she was not at home. I would make up my own melodies at times, and think up words to match the mood and movement, and he would come down to the sitting room and listen. He always applauded, despite what criticisms I held for my own work."

"He died when I was nine."

A long pause proceeded this statement, and then he continued stiffly, "After his death, I was never allowed to leave the house, not even at night, so great was my mother's fear that I would be seen. In the few years we lived together before I ran away, we hardly spoke at all. At first I cried for the loneliness it drove into me, without my father there to fill her absence, but soon it became ordinary and even comforting, since my mother never opened her mouth without a cold remark waiting behind it. When I tired of the confines of living at home, I left."

He took a deep breath, a bitter smile rising to his lips that chilled Christine even as the light fell on her. "Eventually I returned, several years later when my passion for music had come predominant to everything else. I heard from those in the village that my mother had died shortly after suffering from a severe fever, in which her nurse recounted that she had heard my mother saying in her sleep, 'It's not mine. It was never mine.' I took little from that place, save some of the happiest and worst moments of my life, and eventually found myself in Paris about a decade later."

"And there, I found life waiting for me," he finished softly, his eyes roving fiercely as though he were calculating her feelings in the lines of her face. And then, without preamble, without recess from the sad tales of his youth, and in a strange and almost casual tone, he asked, "Why did you kiss me?"

That he even had to ask nearly devastated her. That his mind was still so taunted by deception, so characterized in love by inflections of pity, was somewhat staggering in light of her childish dreams that he had been relieved of it, in being with _her_. She felt herself shaking, biting her lip and turning from him as her throat seared with mounting tears. But she did not tremble from distress or anguish, or even dread; it was from rage. Would it never end? Would he ever be able to see her as more than what she used to be, a broken marionette whose strings he once pulled, and with ease? Could he ever trust her? She was incited by anger at the hopelessness of revolving in circles, and it drove her to speak.

"Why do you _think _I would do such a thing?" she asked desperately, staring at him as though she had only just seen him for the first time in her life. "_Why_, Erik? Because I didn't want you to leave! I thought you were about to take off, to abandon me out of shame. To slip on another mask and let it take you anywhere but back to me! It wasn't pity, Erik. I...I just wanted you to stay."

He seemed to be made of stone, cold and unreadable with his penetrating stare and rigid posture. For a few moments he considered her, the mildest flicker of something unresolved etched in his fair and twisted sides. And then, with a small shake of the head, he burst out laughing.

Even in her anxiety and confusion, Christine could not help but revel in the sound. There was a slight pang of unreality to it, as though it had come from a level of humor that she didn't understand and did not dare try to comprehend. Her anger began to rise again, for there was nothing at which to scoff or mock in the confession she had made. Yet just as she opened her mouth to protest at his behavior, the laughter turned into a warm smile. He took her hand and traced a thumb down the ring finger, his callused skin grazing over the sparkling stones of her engagement ring and making them appear brighter than before.

"Oh, Christine. How alike we are!" he exclaimed, and in that instant he flashed a genuine grin. "I, for those very same reasons, even for those very same words, left you on the dance floor. I thought you were sure to leave, after having such a thing brandished at you, and I had hoped to be able to give you time to recover. To simply storm about in bad temper in my loft for a time and pray that, by doing so, you might not leave."

"We are both a pair of fools, but I am glad it is a pair we make! I had truly wondered if you had forgotten...if you had missed your angel enough to make up another, unbroken and whole, and pretend he was me. But you wore a mask too...and that, I think, may be the most bizarre twist of fate I've ever been a part of. What drove you away from me is what brought you back. I regret that I ever thought less of you, for you have always been the best of me. You were never my mask; you were always here."

And with that, he gestured toward the side of his face that was smooth and unflawed. Too stunned to reply, still trying to grasp meaning in all he had said, Christine merely sat and gaped at him until a finger pressed against her chin and gently pushed her mouth closed. The hand slid once more over her ring, and then began to sort through the masks with an almost caressing touch. Despite etiquette and the admonishing voice in the back of her mind, she found her gaze residing on his damaged side as he filed through the masks. Tentatively, she reached out and rested a hand against it, starting at how feverishly warm the skin was and how it felt so much softer than she had imagined. He looked up in surprise.

"The best of you?" she breathed, for something felt misplaced by that phrase. And then, with an innocence of heart rather than mind, she said with confusion, "But that would be your music."

With a sad smile, he reached up and tenderly pulled the hand away. "Not in this world."

He placed in her hands the beaded green mask from the night before. Slowly, he directed her hands and had her flip it to the back where the tie was to be fastened. The two chords were sprawled apart, no longer joined in a knot as it would have been when he had placed it on his face. Yet she realized, as she let the two ribbons slither through her fingers, that one was drastically shorter than the other. A half formed idea was taking shape and becoming defined just as he spoke again.

"It was cut," he said simply, reaching out to finger the end of the shorter string. "The knot did not come undone, as I make sure they never do. Bumping into me was only a way of disguising a deliberate deed as a mere accident." And then, before she could ask, he hissed, "_Legenyll_."

"But he was no where near you!" she said, remembering how he had come from across the room just after Erik had departed.

"No, but he didn't have to be," Erik replied, and it was clear by his moment's hesitation that he was reliving the horrid scene in his head. "No, the man who bumped into me was simply a pawn, and by the look I remember sketched across his face, he had no idea what he was about to reveal."

"Then you mustn't come to the theater again," Christine said at once, more shaken by his findings than she wanted to admit. Then, at the look on his face, she continued, "At least, not for a little while. Coming to my dressing room might not be so dangerous, but to watch from that center exit...that could be."

He seemed to be pondering over her words, as though debating with himself to tell her something, and whether it was wise to speak of it at all. She waited, but he did not elaborate, appearing resigned to keep it hidden, and so she felt the ambiance of separateness slip back in between them. She wondered how they'd come so far, in every sense and implication, and why it seemed tantamount that they had not come so far at all. For even as she sat there, immersed in all that had been said and discovered, he reached out and lifted the porcelain half mask to his face. Before he had settled it over the misshapen skin, she grabbed his wrist and shook her head forcefully.

"Erik, you don't-," she began, but with a sigh as though in great fatigue, he moved her hand away.

"Christine, maybe someday, but not yet," he said softly, and there was a firm note of steel which made it clear the point was unarguable.

In a single submissive motion, he placed the mask on his face and rose from the windowsill. He moved without his usual grace, his limbs weighed with the stiffness of the weary and aged. And with the burden of the mask. Subdued and forlorn as he was, she wondered now if the organ would be able to express the subtle fragility of all that was going on inside his mind, all the memories. Perhaps the pain was too close to recreate by instrument, and could only be incorporated by his own voice, echoing so near to his beating heart. Or perhaps the music existed only inside those same memories, and it was to compose that he now went. Either way, it would be solitary music. Made with and only with his own talent, bearing so much alone, a thing she had never suffered.

"Erik," she said, so quietly that she wondered if she had spoken at all. Yet he paused and turned his attention back to her, and so, in a barely audible voice, she said, "If you needed to hear the words, then here they are - I love you. I didn't feel them before, and I couldn't say them when I did. I just...I couldn't...I'm sorry it's taken me so long."

She ended in a faint whisper with her eyes to the floor. After seconds of perpetuity, she could no longer resist the urge or the silence, and hesitantly looked up to see his reaction. He was indiscernible again, considering her on such a level that his expressions did not betray his thoughts in the least. As she locked her gaze to his, she could suddenly see herself the way he had always professed to have beheld her. Beautiful and passionate, unsure of her talent, strong of heart, but too lost within her loneliness and wistful dreams to start anew without a guiding hand. And now, he saw another part of her character that she could see as well; growth. He smiled conversantly at her, understanding, and it was possibly the sweetest and saddest thing she had ever seen. Had anyone ever told him that?

"I'm a patient man," he replied, with the air of one who has waited impeccably for time beyond measure. He began to turn and then paused, his soft smile spreading further. "Sometimes."

He walked back through the warehouse, sunlight catching him briefly as he passed the gilded windows, leaving Christine to ponder over their strange conversation on the windowsill with the masks he had left behind.

* * *

A/N: Well, that's it. Evil Legenyll. There might be a few rocky moments ahead for our dear couple. We're a little over half way done now. Squeal So, you know the drill. Get reviewing! 


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